


I Found You On The Night Shift

by quotations



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (not between Olivarry), AU where Barry leaves Central City, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Barry and Thea are besties, Barry cross-dresses in one chapter, Barry is a badass, Barry is a bartender, Barry might just be a catlady, Barry needs to buy new bandaids, M/M, Oliver is protective, Oliver needs someone to stitch him up, Ratings will go up in future chapters, Slow Burn, Thea is protective, hurt comfort, plot and porn, protectiveness is a Queen trait, slight non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quotations/pseuds/quotations
Summary: Set pre-lightning strike. After being reprimanded about the man in yellow by a disbelieving Joe one time too many, Barry decides to leave the CCPD behind him. 600 miles behind, to be exact. He could apply to be SCPD’s new forensic tech, but that wouldn’t really be leaving things behind. And the man in yellow who always appears in Barry’s dreams keeps him awake in time for night shifts, anyway.Which works out in his favor, since the nightclub Verdant has a job opening.





	1. Just Like That

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline is a little skewered here: this is set pre-Flash season 1, and dabbles in various Arrow arcs. The most important bit is Thea doesn’t know that the Vigilante is her brother, and Diggle and Felicity are already working for Oliver. Since it’s AU this is going to deviate from the Arrow’s plots and just be its own little thing. 
> 
> Characters may be a bit OOC in this AU. Barry’s really hurting since Joe, basically his second father, doesn’t believe him about the man in yellow. Because of this, the Barry we’re familiar with (the one whose essence is sunshine) isn’t as trusting or smiley as he would normally be had he never left Central City. 
> 
> Who knows if forensic scientists really know how to stitch people up? Barry’s probably smart enough to know how just by reading medical books alone (which I think we all know he does for fun). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this first installment! More Olivarry to come!

     When Barry finds the man, he’s unconscious and bleeding sluggishly in the dumpster behind the bar with dark greasepaint smearing down his cheekbones. 

     It’s unmistakable who he is. 

     Three bullet holes riddle one side of the man — _the Vigilante_ — and there is a seeping gash on the top-right part of his face. 

     “Well, crap,” Barry mumbles, dropping the overflowing garbage bags in his hands. They land with a heavy thud onto the pavement.  

     Barry thought he left the blood and bullets behind him when he’d moved out of Central City. It appears bad fortune has caught up with him though, even after all this time. 

     Barry closes his eyes, pretending, but he can _hear_ the man’s strained breathing. He knows there isn’t much time left for the Vigilante. It’s evident in the pallor of his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls in sharp, unnatural jagged heaves. 

     Pulling the man out of the dumpster is difficult. Barry has to take things one pull at a time, first propping the Hood upright. Then sifting him out slowly, as if the Vigilante is a particularly heavy crate of wine. 

     Up, and over the side of the dumpster. Easy does it now, easy. Then the man is out. 

     But things are far from over. Barry supposes he could call the police. His hand doesn’t even twitch to grab his cell-phone though, because even after all this time Barry knows. This isn’t one for the police. 

     Barry could also just leave the Vigilante here. He could do that, really he could. Barry’s a little surprised that he even thinks of that possibility, and more so that he doesn’t berate himself for it. 

     It really has been a long time, after all. 

     Another option is to bring the masked — slightly, though, at this point — man into the bar and let Thea deal with him. Thea is good at dealing with unpredictable variables, it's how Barry had gotten a job at the bar in the first place. 

     But in the end, Barry cuts his shift early and brings the Vigilante back to his apartment. 

* * *

     Fourteen stitches, some hefty plier wristwork and a couple of butterfly band-aids later finds Barry washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

     Empty bandage wrappers lie scattered around the kitchen island, lying innocently amongst plates and cups of the same white shade. Barry watches as his hands go from crimson to a faint pink, and finally back to pale. 

     He’s washing his hands after a crime scene. It is all too easy, too reminiscent. 

     Barry thinks about calling Joe. They haven’t spoken in a while. Barry knows Joe is trying to give him space. Iris doesn’t heed the same protocol as her father. He’d gotten a text — that went unanswered, of course — from her just last week. Barry could certainly call _her._

     Instead, Barry turns from the kitchen back to the living room where he finds the man has woken. 

     The Vigilante is clawing desperately at the make-shift mask Barry has made for him — more like the breathable version of a burlap sack, really — so Barry clears his throat. 

     The man stops shifting immediately. His whole body tenses for a fight, and Barry knows if he could see the man’s face it would be pinched in displeasure.

     “You can relax, it’s not a blindfold,” Barry says. And then, because actually it kind of is, he adds, “I mean, I’m not trying to hold you hostage here. I just didn’t want to see your face.”

     Because Barry knows it’s every anonymous man’s first rule: don’t let anyone see your face. People wore masks when they wanted to do things undiscovered. Barry knows that firsthand. He’d seen enough masked criminals when sifting through the files Joe brought home with him from work. 

     Barry wasn’t about to break the rule, even though he could have. With the Vigilante passed out and a bounty high on his head, Barry could have. 

     The man must know that, because his next words come out as skeptical. Hoarse, from strain and disuse, but mostly skeptical: “You don’t want to see my face?”

     Barry flops down across from the man, onto the only other piece of furniture in his cramped living room. He thinks about how the man didn’t say, _you haven’t seen my face?_ No, instead the Hood is asking a deeper question: _why._

     But Barry’s stitched this guy up, has plucked the bullets right out of his bruised and mottled skin. He doesn’t owe this man an explanation. So he deigns the _why_ with a simple answer: “No.”

     The man stops fidgeting with the mask, which is really just a bunch of Barry’s sweaters tied around his forehead and chin leaving a gap for his nose. It’s with a muffled voice that the man asks next, “If I’m not your hostage…then what am I doing here?”

     “Well,” Barry props one foot onto the coffee table, which makes the man startle back. Softer this time, Barry lets the other foot drop onto the glass. 

     “Well,” he repeats. “You were passed out in the dumpster behind _Verdant.”_ Barry knows the Vigilante must have heard of the club, it’s very well-frequented by Starling City’s people. 

     “I took you out from there, brought you here — ” Barry waves at his apartment even though the man can’t actually see it “ — patched you up, and here we are.”

     Then the man does the unthinkable and rips the sweater-mask-sack off his face. Belatedly, Barry realizes it’s probably _not_ that unthinkable, because after all who wants to be in pain _and_ blind? Who takes a stranger’s word for honesty?

     For all the Vigilante knew, Barry is a lying serial killer standing over the couch with a knife in hand.

     Barry freezes as the man soaks in his surroundings and then draws frigid blue eyes on Barry’s own. Barry’s hand is clenched tight around a glass of water, the one he had been meaning to offer the man. But he can’t for the life of him remember that now. 

     “ _Who are you?_ ” the man asks, voice dangerously low and lethal. It’s not a thank you, for saving the man’s life, but Barry didn’t expect anything less than suspicion from the Vigilante. 

     The man is around the right age for a healthy, active person swinging across skyscrapers and slinging arrows at people. He’s in his late-twenties to early-thirties at the most. A patchwork of stubble drifts across the lower half of his face, but it looks trimmed, and neat. 

     Despite the wild anger in the man’s eyes, Barry suddenly recognizes him. _Oliver Queen._  

     The man sees the flash of realization. His eyes narrow. “I’m guessing you know who I am, now. But it seems _you’ve still not answered my question.”_

     The man sounds positively lethal now, and a small part of Barry — the part that always makes him run in his nightmares — is afraid. A different part, one that’s _always there_ ever since meeting the man in yellow eleven years ago, is angry. 

     But larger than those two is a cold, languid numbness. It’s what made Barry leave the CCPD eight months ago. And it’s that keeps Barry from bolting in his seat. 

     “I’m Barry Allen. I’m a bartender at _Verdant,_ and this is my apartment.” Barry’s sure he can see a flash of indignation in Oliver’s face at the last part. But it’s true. They are in _his_ house right now. If Oliver wants to kill him, he’d better not get blood on Barry’s couch cushions. And he’d have to do a really, really good job of cleaning up the evidence. 

     “You’re a bartender, at _my club,_ ” Oliver echoes in disbelief, “but you patched me up.” Barry’s not even offended that Oliver doesn’t recognize him. Barry’s been at _Verdant_ for over half a year, but Oliver has got better things to do than hang around his staff. 

     Like shoot arrows at rich villains and thugs, apparently. 

     Oliver’s still looking at Barry like Barry should be running, or hiding, or calling the cops. Oliver’s probably not wrong, at least about the first two things. 

     Barry just shrugs. “I wasn’t always a bartender,” he says, and leaves it at that. Barry figures, _to hell with it,_ and drinks Oliver’s water to coat his dry throat before tipping the glass towards the other man. 

     Oliver ignores the offering, squinting his eyes down even _more_ at Barry if it were possible. 

     After a beat of silence, Barry drinks the water again, crosses his ankles, and says, “Door’s behind us, to the right. Feel free to keep the sweaters.” Because Oliver’s still bare-chested after Barry had to cut his shirt open for the stitches, and Barry had been meaning to throw out the CCPD Forensic Tech sweater anyway. He wasn’t sure why he still had it. 

     Oliver looks truly surprised at that, gaping at Barry. _Just like that?_ He seems to be asking, and Barry shrugs again. 

_Just like that._

     “You’ve seen my face now,” Oliver says, standing. He’s a good inch shorter than Barry, but Barry certainly only has half of Oliver’s muscle definition. 

_And whose fault is that? You’re the one who took off the blindfolds,_ Barry silently thinks, raising his face to jut one eyebrow up at Oliver. “I haven’t called the police in all this time. I’m not about to pick up the phone to do so now.”

     Oliver still looks angry though, and he’s snatched up his crossbow from where Barry propped it at the end of the couch. Barry doesn’t bother telling Oliver that he should probably rest for, like, a lifetime after all his body has gone through. He’s seen enough of Oliver’s scars while he was unconscious to know what a man who won’t quit looks like. 

     “How do I know you won’t talk?” Oliver asks, and there are probably so many questions he wants to ask but this is the most pressing one. 

     “You don’t, really,” Barry agrees. “You’re just going to have to believe me.” There’s a brief pause before Barry takes another pointed sip, matching Oliver’s glare with a cool stare of his own. 

_And we both know you could keep me quiet._ Barry knows it’s what Oliver’s thinking. Barry doesn’t move an inch, simply resting his hands on either side of the armchair. _Ball’s really in your court._ Oliver kind of owned the whole metaphorical court. He certainly had the money for it. 

     Instead of slotting an arrow in his bow, Oliver snaps his jaw shut with an audible _click_. He wheels around, grimacing only slightly as he clutches his side, and darts out Barry’s front door. 

     Barry sighs loudly into the empty apartment, letting out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. His hands are shaking, his nerves jittery, and he needs to tell someone about what’s just happened. 

     He could call Joe. 

     He could call _Iris._

     He could. 

     But so far, Barry has not done anything that was expected of him tonight, so instead he leans his head back and simply closes his eyes. 

* * *

     Barry wakes from a nightmare where the man in yellow’s eyes are a different shade of blue, though piercing through him all the same, and greasepaint is in Barry’s mouth, choking him. 

     It’s four AM when he wakes. He gets one groggy second to himself before he realizes what woke him. 

     A fierce banging is coming from his front door. Barry’s heart leaps; is it Oliver? Has he changed his mind? 

     Barry knows a locked door isn’t going to stop the Vigilante, so he goes ahead and just opens it.  

     It’s Thea. 

     The club owner gives Barry a lengthy once-over, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. Barry knows the woman would never say it herself, but Thea’s passionate about her staff. Barry should have known cutting his shift early would have made her alarmed.  

     But Barry’s sleepy and drained, and shaking a bit from his nightmare, so he’s not totally up to talking yet. And his brain hasn’t caught up to him, to tell him this probably looks worse than it really is. 

     “Why did you leave early today? I was worried there for a second,” Thea's irritated, in a concerned, sisterly kind of way, shifting her hand through her short dark hair. She comes inside to stand in the middle of Barry’s living room, adrift. 

     Thea’s just looking out for him, Barry knows, and she didn’t have to do that. So Barry tries not to get upset that he’s viewed as a flight-case and splays out on the couch instead, exhausted. 

     “Why are you all — ” Thea gestures a hand toward Barry’s sprawled, tired form. 

     “It’s what people look like when getting woken up at four AM, Thea,” Barry snorts. Thea herself looks wide awake, probably just getting off her shift at the bar. To Thea, four AM might as well be four PM.

     “Oh, shit,” Thea swears, frowning apologetically, “I’m sorry Barry.”

     “No, it’s fine, really,” Barry says quickly. What’s wrong with him? Lashing out at Thea. His nerves are just still frayed from his encounter with the Vigilante — _Thea’s freakin’ brother —_ and his defenses are up. But there’s no need for that, with Thea.  

     Thea eyes the circles under Barry’s lids, frowning. “Are you sure you were slee — are you sure you’re okay?” Thea changes tracks, and Barry’s so grateful that Thea’s deciding to trust him. 

     Barry knows it isn’t easy to, after everything Thea’s witnessed Barry do. When they had first met, at his job interview, Barry had been a rambling idiot just desperate to be hired and forget everything about Central City. He didn’t know jack — pun completely intended — about making a drink but somehow Thea took pity on him and offered to train him. All the piss-poor performances that happened after Barry first got behind the bar probably makes him one half a nut job, the other half just a desperate mess.

     “I was having a nightmare,” Barry admits. “I’m glad you came, actually, to wake me from it.” Barry takes a sip of the glass on the table, then blanches when he remembers who it was for. Thea catches the look, crossing the room to sit down on the other couch.

     Absurdly, Barry’s now lying where Oliver had before and Thea’s where Barry had sat. _Jesus._

     Thea’s looking around now, taking in the bandage wrappers that Barry hadn’t bothered to throw away just yet. Her eyes narrow in concern again. 

     “Are you hurt?”

     Barry shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s — no.”

     Thea regards Barry carefully. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

     Barry hates himself at the resigned tone in Thea’s voice. Thea’s used to prying information out of Barry, slowly, bit by bit, never right away. Eventually she had gained his trust enough for Barry to spill the beans about Joe, the man in yellow, everything. And then, even more miraculously, she had believed him — even about his father’s innocence.

     Thea’s a helper, but Barry’s never really confessed anything up front to her, so in Thea’s eyes she’s more of a helper to Barry than a friend.

     Barry hates that part of him, the secretive part that lingers despite not having any more secrets to hold. Thea knows everything — why he left Central City, about the man in yellow and his surrogate father not believing him. But Barry’s first instinct is still to clam up and hope for the best, not ask for help. But he doesn’t want to lie to Thea after she’s taken a chance on him.

     Still, there’s no way in hell Barry’s going to tell Thea about Oliver. For one thing, he’s pretty much promised the man he wouldn’t speak to anyone — although Thea’s not exactly the police — and for a second, it’s _Thea._ Oliver’s _sister._

     If she doesn’t know, and Barry has to believe she doesn’t, then he’s not about to be the one to tell her. 

     Barry gives it some thought.

     “It’s nothing…bad,” Barry starts, and Thea leans forward expectantly. “Someone just…dropped by today.” Barry instantly regrets saying that, because he forgot that Thea knew Barry was alone in the city. He didn’t know anyone who would just _drop by,_ god Barry was stupid when he was tired.

     “What do you mean, ‘dropped by’? Who?” Thea looks more curious than worried now.

     Barry takes a deep breath, backtracking. “I saw someone today, in the alleyway behind the bar. And then I brought him home — nobody dropped by, sorry that was stupid,” Barry scrubs a hand over his face. Christ, he was so tired. 

     “Barry, what are you saying?” Thea’s patient, but Barry can hear the festering curiosity in her tone. “Did you have a _one-night stand?”_

     “What! _No,”_ Barry groans, suddenly aware he’s pretty much outed himself by accident if that’s what Thea is thinking. Why couldn’t he have just said he was sick? Or something. 

     Thea’s looking at him like she’s one second away from shaking him by the shoulders. “Barry, tell me what’s going on!”

     “Okay, yes, I was with someone, sure.” Screw it. He’s dug this hole for himself, there’s no going back.

     As soon as he says it, Barry realizes he made a mistake.

     Thea sits back, eyes wide. “ _What?”_

     “Yeah, he — he was um, someone I met in the alley.” Barry laughs awkwardly, then realizes how that sounds. “I mean, he’s not some shady character, or anything.” _Actually, he really is, and he’s your brother to boot, Thea._ “He was trying to find the right entrance to the club and I helped him and we sort of hit it off…and here I am,” Barry shrugs. There. He didn’t just sleep with random people he met behind the bar!

     He just took them home and stitched them up, that was all. 

     “‘Here you are’?!” Thea thunders over him, suddenly looming. Startled, Barry looks up at her in surprise.

     “I need _details,”_ Thea says, face lit in incredulous glee. “How is it that I’m only just now hearing about this random guy?”

     "He’s not a _random guy,”_ Barry points out, indignant that Thea would think this of his hypothetical one-night stand, “I’ve met him before!”

     “Exactly!” Thea booms, fingers digging tightly into Barry’s shirt. 

     “I don’t know, Thea! It just sort of happened!” Barry babbles, pushing Thea off him. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

     And then, because it felt like he should, Barry added, “I’m sorry for skipping work.”

     “What for?” Thea sighs, slumping next to Barry. “For having some fun for once? I’m just upset you didn’t _tell me_ that you’ve finally found someone in Starling City.”

     “It’s not a big deal,” Barry repeats.

     “What’s his name?” Thea asks, unashamedly curious. 

     “Uh,” Barry stutters, because it’s one thing to make up a lie and a whole different thing to have to produce a guy out of thin air. “He doesn’t want people to know…” _That I used my knowledge of science to stitch him up, you know, like they do in the morgue — but like, this time he was alive, I mean it’s all the same in theory. “…_ and he’s gone, he’s taken my word that I won’t tell anybody.”

     And then Thea’s looking at him in a different way, kind of worried again. “Is he not out? I get that, but Barry, I don’t know if you should associate yourself with someone who wants to keep you a secret…”

     "No, no,” _he’s probably straight,_ “he’s just a little, uh,” _a little bit illegal,_ “skittish, but that doesn’t mean he’s all bad,” Barry reasons. It’s not a complete lie. It’s really what he’s been thinking about the Vigilante. In between fearing for his life, of course. 

     “Just be careful, okay?” Thea reminds him. 

     Barry nods and smiles at her as he leans back into the couch, feeling warm and cared for. It has been a long time since he’s felt this way. He’s glad Thea is the one who interviewed him, and not Tommy whom he barely sees around the bar. 

     Barry realizes that even without Joe, Iris, and even with this new, looming Vigilante in the city — there is one person he can count on in Starling City. 

_And again,_ he thinks, _it has been a long time._


	2. One On The Rocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback, guys! You all rock!
> 
> By the way — I really love Joe’s character on the Flash. But before he witnessed Barry’s powers and the Weather Wizard with his very eyes, he didn’t believe the man in yellow was a possibility. So he’s not portrayed as the best guy here in this fic, since Barry’s very hurt by this disbelief. Just expounding on that disbelief in this fic (in a way it’s realistic considering the pilot episode of the Flash), but not trying to Joe-hate, I really do like him!
> 
> Oliver has his foundry in this fic but still needs someone/a place for when he’s wounded far out in the city. I’m also operating on the premise that Oliver, Thea, and Tommy are co-owners of Verdant. Oliver’s more management from afar, while Thea and Tommy actually work within the club. Inspiration for Barry’s cigarettes comes from Flash 1x03 when Barry says, “My chest feels like that one time I had a cigarette. Teen me lived for danger.”

     Since he pretty much bailed on work yesterday, Barry takes an extra shift the next day. He figures he owes it to Thea, who doesn’t really ask Barry to do it but implies she’s grateful when Barry does. 

     This allows Thea to sleep in the next day, so it’s just Barry behind the counter polishing scotch glasses as nine-thirty in the morning.

     Thea’s faith in him is what makes this all worth it. Barry knows it’s not fair to compare a friend looking out for him with a father doing what’s best for his son, even if it’s hard…but he can’t help thinking that if _Thea_ could believe Barry, then Joe should have at least tried.

_That’s not fair, no, it really isn’t. It’s not Joe’s fault Henry Allen is — where he is. But Joe never believed you, after you told him what really happened eleven years ago._

     Iris, never wanting to pick a side, always said she trusted Barry. It wasn’t _belief,_ it was trust…like she trusted that Barry _thought_ he’d seen a man in yellow the night his mother was killed. But that didn’t mean she believed it actually happened.

     It would have felt good knowing Iris definitely believed Barry, except Barry couldn’t know that for sure.

     The bar’s completely empty at this hour, so when someone suddenly walks in Barry instinctively snaps his head up. When he sees who it is, he fumbles with his glass and nearly cracks it against the counter.

     Oliver Queen strides in, the picture of brazen confidence and calm, cool collectedness. Barry’s seen him around before, checking up on things or talking to his sister. But there’s a spark in his eyes now that Barry can’t erase from his memory, one that’s dark and lethal.

     When Oliver sees him, he heads straight over to the bar. Plops down on a barstool like this is what he always does.

     “One on the rocks,” Oliver orders. Barry’s jaw drops. Oliver pulls out his phone, not even giving Barry a second look.

     So he hops to. Splashes a little amber liquid into the glass he’s just polished, slicks it on some ice, does it all in fluid, practiced motions. If his hands jitter a little as he does, well, he can blame it on meeting a known billionaire. Oliver’s imposing enough, even without someone knowing he moonlights as the Vigilante.

     By this time, Oliver’s watching him, so Barry slides the glass over to Oliver and waits for him to speak.

     Because of course this isn’t a coincidence. Of course Oliver has come here to see if he can find Barry, although technically he knows where Barry lives…

     “You can relax,” Oliver finally looks up and tells Barry the same exact first words Barry had told him last night. Barry’s face flushes and his next words come out more callous than they would have normally if Oliver was simply just Oliver Queen and Barry was still living at peace in Central City.

     “What do you want, then?”

     Oliver looks a little taken aback. Barry quietly revels in knowing that he’s made the Vigilante surprised.

     “I’m checking that you’re a bartender here,” Oliver tells him.

     “Checking up on _me,”_ Barry fixes for the millionaire. “Just say it like it is, Oliver.”

     The first name rolls foreign on Barry’s tongue; they’re nowhere near familiar with each other. But _Vigilante_ sounds preposterous in the morning light, and Mr. Queen makes Barry sound afraid.

     Oliver looks taken aback again, but also a bit impressed. And maybe even — amused? Barry never thought he’d ever see the Vigilante look amused. Hell, he’d never thought he’d see _Oliver Queen,_ Starling City’s favorite, smile at _him._

     “Alright,” Oliver says slowly, tasting the words like they are part of his drink, “I’m checking up on you.” When Barry raises an eyebrow, Oliver elaborates, “To see if you’ve kept your word,” Oliver says, taking a sip.

     “Right,” Barry says, appreciating the candor that is somehow, yet not surprisingly, harder to find in Oliver Queen than in the Vigilante. “Your sister came by after,” Barry admits, making honesty a two-way street.

     As soon as he says it, Barry wonders if the bar’s fumes aren’t getting to him. Oliver halts with his glass mid-way to his mouth, his shoulders seizing.

     “She’s kind of my friend,” Barry says quickly, making sure Oliver knows he didn’t intentionally call her, “who doesn’t know a thing. At least, no more than she already does,” he finishes, scrutinizing Oliver to see if the man will say Thea knows already.

     But Oliver simply stares at him. “Alright,” he says again, making Barry parrot it back, “Alright?”

     “Yes. As long as that’s true,” Oliver waits until Barry nods in affirmation.

     “She just thinks I’m sleeping with you,” Barry assures him, kicking himself when Oliver’s eyes immediately go tense again. Of course that didn’t come out at all like it was supposed to. Barry quickly explains how he needed to come up with an excuse for missing work and Thea jumped to conclusions.

     Oliver looks relatively disinterested again once Barry explains. He turns his piercing gaze back to Barry, the lines of his defined cheekbones shifting under the bar’s dappled lighting. “Why did you stitch me up?” Oliver cuts right to the chase.

     “You’re —“ Barry let’s the phrase hang in the air, empty but obvious. _You’re the Vigilante._

     “And what does that mean, to you?” Oliver asks him.

     It’s a valid question. “It means…safety. For Starling City. Protection.” Barry swallows, suddenly aware that those were the same kind of words the criminals Joe put away used to validate their own schemes. But this was different. This wasn’t misdemeanor masquerading as heroism. Oliver knew what he was, how he could be seen. He wasn’t doing what he did out of some kind of self-fulfillment or prophetic wish, for his reputation or even for recognition of any kind.

     “So you’re a fan,” Oliver states. He says it the way people say, _looks like rain,_ a statement obvious to both the speaker and the receiver but said aloud anyway. His voice isn’t arrogant, or smug, if anything it’s more suspicious than before.

     “I’m…I’m a proponent, I guess,” Barry says, before frowning at himself. “Wait, that’s a fancy word for fan.” He swears Oliver does his whole amused-Vigilante thing again. “But I’m not someone blindly following you out of some ill-founded devotion, is what I’m trying to say. I’m not going to pretend I really understand everything about the Vigilante, but I’d like to have the chance. Not very easy to do that if you died in my boss’s dumpster.”

     Oliver looks at Barry carefully over the rim of his glass. Barry notes that while Oliver has been taking little sips of the drink throughout their entire conversation, the glass is still basically full. Oliver’s not going to let his guard down that willingly.

     But apparently whatever Barry’s trying to say strikes a chord in the man, because Oliver seems satisfied. He leans back in his chair, still keeping watchful eyes on Barry.

     “Not many people know of my — duality,” Oliver says. “Not even Thea.” Barry nods, having assumed as much.

     “I’m not going to say anything,” Barry says, exasperated now, but Oliver holds up one hand to stop him. Palm side up, Barry can see the underside is rough and calloused, and there’s one long, rippling white strip of raised skin from his forefinger up to his wrist that disappears into his suit. A scar, one that looks to have been painful in its creation.

     “Most of the people who know found out during necessity,” Oliver explains. “They’re sort of — my team, now.” Oliver regards Barry shrewdly. “You’re a bartender, but you’re proficient with a first-aid kit. We can’t go to hospitals…and you’ve got an apartment in the center of the city.”

     Barry holds up his hands, already seeing where this is going. “I’m not interested in anything to do with the Vigilante,” he blurts out, wincing because it sounds incredibly egotistical to have even assumed Oliver was heading in that direction…but Barry is emphatic about this. Even if Oliver has distinguished himself from criminals, Barry is not going to get mixed up in anyone else’s business.

     He’s already got one secret no one will believe him about, one he can’t ever tell without looking like a fool. He doesn’t need any more.

     Oliver purses his lips, looking more confused than put out. Barry’s relieved, considering he just rebuked a man known to shoot people in the hand with arrows.

     “I thought you were a proponent.”

     “I wasn’t going to let you get killed, is what I was trying to say. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stitch you up every time you get a cut.” Barry’s still got his defenses high up, walls thickening with each word; danger still permeates the air, danger and unease. The walls Barry’s learned to put up since Joe and Iris’s disbelief have grown vines, that’s how long they’ve been around.

     “Alright,” Oliver says in that same easy, calm tone that probably cinched a ton of business deals. Barry doesn’t trust it a bit, but he does admittedly admire it.

     Then Oliver pays his tab and is gone, so fast and so naturally Barry has to wonder if he really isn’t just a billionaire in a suit.

* * *

Two weeks pass. 

     Barry had wondered, after Oliver left, if the man had even truly wanted Barry’s help or if it was all a test to see if Barry meant it when he’d proclaimed not being a fan. Even though Oliver had mentioned a _we,_ and Barry was sure Oliver had to be working with _someone,_ he knew the Vigilante didn’t just recruit people because they had seen his face and knew how to stitch without swooning.

     But in the following two weeks, Barry’s too preoccupied to think more about it. Since coming to Starling City it’s his default setting to push anything remotely upsetting from his mind. And after a couple members of the staff come down with the flu, it’s up to Barry to fill in for the afternoon shift. He finds himself too busy to dwell on his unsettling thoughts.

     Now Barry’s responsible for training the newcomers too, which is great because Thea apparently trusts Barry enough for such a task — but it’s also horrible because the newbies are so green Barry’s tempted to throw them in the recycling bin with all the other eco-friendly trash.

     He knows he was a mess when he first started working at _Verdant,_ but if one more newbie puts whiskey in the gin and tonic (the correct drink is in the _name,_ for crying aloud) he’ll make them drink their own sneezers.

     So when Barry opens his door, ready to start another double-shift with a text from Thea to _be patient,_ he’s not expecting his foot to connect against someone’s ribs.

     “ _Unnh,”_ the owner of the abused ribs groans. Barry swallows and looks down.

     “We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” he says softly, to the prone body of Oliver Queen lying sprawled across his welcome mat.

* * *

Barry slinks back into his apartment, leaving the door open. He leans against his kitchen counter and stares at Oliver’s unconscious body outside. 

     He thinks back to Oliver’s _alrights,_ and how this was in drastic contradiction to everything being _alright_ for Barry. He remembers almost leaving Oliver in the dumpster. 

     Barry takes a deep breath. Then he steps back outside.

     Barry swivels his head left to right, but no one is outside to witness him carry Oliver’s dead weight inside. So Barry proceeds to hook both arms underneath Oliver’s armpits and drags him backward, nearly falling on his ass, twice.

     As soon as Oliver’s feet cross the threshold Barry slams the door shut and locks it. He cradles Oliver’s face, both of them nestled on the cold linoleum floor. Barry has to check for the damage before he can think about moving Oliver further.

     He’s really not any kind of licensed medic. So Barry’s eyes go wide as he catalogues two rough dagger cuts reaming Oliver’s thighs. The cuts are already infected, seeping yellow pus. It looks like Oliver hadn’t come to Barry’s right away.

     There’s probably a reason for that. Barry spots red, angry cuff-marks marring Oliver’s wrists. Oliver probably only just escaped from his captors, who hadn’t been gentle.

     Two angry lumps christen Oliver’s forehead. One for the first capture, and one for…maybe he’d tried escaping before. Unsuccessfully.

     Barry kneels onto the floor beside the unconscious man. “What did you take?” Barry’s slapping at Oliver’s face lightly. “Oliver. _Oliver._ What did you take?”

     Because if the wounds, no matter how nasty and infected, aren’t life-threatening then why does Oliver have a serious pallor about him, a desperate, slick sweat building up at his back and he’s not waking?

     “What did they make you take?”

     Oliver doesn’t have any answers for Barry.

     Barry swears, then lifts Oliver more to drag him over to the longest couch where Oliver had lain before. “Home sweet home,” he mutters to the unconscious figure.

     Barry does what he can for Oliver’s physical wounds. He cleans out the cuts and bandages them securely, noting how Oliver doesn’t so much as twitch the entire time. Then Barry moves on to the more superficial cuts on Oliver’s wrists, opting to just put a salve on them and let them air-dry.

     The head wounds, at closer inspection, aren’t too deadly. They’ve already stopped bleeding, and they’re shallow. But a concussion is a possibility.

     Barry’s not sure what to do next. He could induce vomiting, but if Oliver’s been in captivity for a while the drug might already be wearing off. Oliver seems uncomfortable, but not in _serious_ distress, so Barry decides not to do anything too extreme. He could aggravate an already bad situation.

     But considering the sweat collecting in Oliver’s collarbone, Barry does what he can. He tugs Oliver’s shirt off, pushing two cushions underneath the man’s chest so he can be propped up when he wakes.

     Then Barry lays a wet towel on Oliver’s head and chest, hoping it will cool him down. He throws the sweaty shirt into the wash. Despite them also being dirty and in tatters, Barry simply leaves Oliver’s pants on. Vigilante identity aside, there are other types of privacy that should be considered.

     Barry’s still in his uniform. He’s late — very late — but he could still make his second shift. Thea’s short-staffed, and Barry’s not keen on lying again.

     But what if Barry leaves, and Oliver goes into some kind of drug-induced heart attack, and Barry comes home to a dead man on his couch?

     Barry shoots a quick text to Thea, hoping his bullshit excuse flies this time. Others are sick, it’s not impossible to think that Barry might have caught the flu, too.

     Oliver sleeps bonelessly from noon until early evening. During that time, Barry listens to three _This American Life_ podcasts, orders groceries online, learns how to make smoothies using watermelons and smokes two cigarettes.

     He’s not a smoker, not really, but talking to people about the things that happen to him isn’t an option anymore. And sitting still, bouncing his leg up and down with nerves, only worked for about five minutes.

     Barry’s making some kind of egg-based dinner dish when Oliver finally wakes. As usual, Oliver’s wild, jumping up from the couch with eyes darting toward the sizzling sound from Barry’s pan.

     Barry holds up one hand in Oliver’s direction, both placating and a barrier. “Morning.” It’s six-thirty in the evening.

     “What — Barry, how —“ Oliver stutters, the rags Barry placed on him dropping to the floor like swatted flies.

     “You got blood on my welcome mat,” Barry proceeds to say, eyes still on his pan. “Seeing as I know your identity now, your very luxurious identity, I can ask — please get me a new welcome mat.”

     Oliver’s staring at him still, watching Barry cook calmly from five feet away. Damn, but his apartment is small.

     “And I ran out of bandages, not knowing I’d have to operate my own mini hospital in here, so we’ll need to get more of those if this is going to become a thing.” Barry cuts his eyes over to where Oliver stands, chest heaving with exertion. “I thought I’d said though, that this wasn’t going to become a thing.”

     Oliver gazes at him unrepentantly. “I thought you said you didn’t want me to die.”

     “You weren’t going to die. You were just out cold, and bleeding a bit.”

     “A bit?” Oliver’s lips tug upward slightly, his voice wry as he speaks. “No one’s ever described my dagger wounds as ‘bleeding a bit’ before.”

     “Well, they might, if they’d had to stitch up three bullet wounds two weeks prior,” Barry informs him smartly, before turning off the stove and sliding his meal onto two plates.

     Oliver jumps as something furry wraps itself around his legs. “Shit!” Oliver says loudly, moving as if to kick it away.

     “Oliver!” Barry shouts, making Oliver jump and actually pause mid-kick. “That’s Scully!”

     “Scully?” Oliver echoes, bemused, as the furry thing skitters away to hide behind Barry’s long legs.

     “My cat,” Barry says, sitting back on his haunches to give Scully reassuring pats.

     “You…didn’t have a cat last time I was here,” Oliver explains, as if new things ought to be welcomed with a karate kick to the skull.

     Barry shrugs, not looking up from patting Scully’s long, silky orange fur. “She just sort of…showed up. Like you,” Barry smirks at Oliver, “you’ve certainly got enough lives to be a cat.”

     Oliver glares, burrows back into the couch, and sighs. Barry’s surprised. It looks like Oliver is going to rest this time.

     Barry places one of the plates and a glass of water on the table next to the couch. He settles into the chair opposite Oliver, more because it’s the only other place to sit and eat than because he really wants to.

     “Had some trouble with the Triads,” Oliver says suddenly, making Barry startle at the information. His stomach twists, because he didn’t want to know. He’d promised _not to get involved._ Oliver had said _alright._ And if this was another way to rope Barry into stitching him up, or for Oliver to threaten Barry’s life since Barry knew so much, well…it was low.

     “I don’t want to know,” Barry reminds Oliver, letting his walls collide back between them.

     “Then why do you do this?” Oliver gestured at his bandaged thigh. “What are you trying to get out of it?”

     “Nothing.” Barry decides, _screw this,_ and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette despite it being dinnertime.

     Oliver watches in curiosity as Barry lights one up. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

     “Well, you really don’t know anything about me, now do you Oliver Queen.” Barry tugs on the cigarette with his tongue, savoring the minty, smokey flavor. It’s disgusting, but also oddly soothing at this point. He’ll probably get lung cancer, but at least Oliver’s piercing gaze isn’t unsettling him anymore.

     There is a moment of silence, inexplicably unstrained. Just — quiet.

     A knocking on the door makes Oliver jolt. The tension snaps back into the room.

     “Barry, it’s me! Open up.”

_Thea._

     Barry scrambles up from the chair, leaping to the front door before turning around. Oliver is frozen on the couch, half-way between running and grabbing his crossbow.

     Barry points one finger to the only closed door in the apartment. Oliver doesn’t move.

 _Go._ Barry inclines his head, trying to convey Oliver _not_ to use his crossbow against his own sister. _Be smart, it’s okay to run the other way._ Joe had taught him that. Oliver stares at Barry for a few more seconds. Then, slowly, wordlessly, Oliver slinks off the couch and pads over to the room.

     Barry waits until the bedroom door has closed fully behind the Vigilante before swinging the front door open.

     “Hey, Thea.” Barry’s glad he’s just smoked, because his throat is already affecting a slightly scratchy tone. Hopefully it makes him sound like he has the flu.

     “Hey Barry, how are you feeling?” Thea sweeps past Barry into the apartment on reflex, not usually needing to ask for an invitation.

     “You know, Thea, I’m not feeling great, and I don’t want you to catch it so — ”

     “Have you been smoking?” Thea sniffs the air. She frowns. Barry knows Thea is aware smoking is his fallback when he’s having anxiety.

     “I — like I said, not feeling great.”

     Thea turns to look at him. She eyes Barry’s clothes. Barry’s still his work uniform, though the sleeves are rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. There’s a dark stain on his socks from when Barry had spilled some rubbing alcohol.

     Scully meows helpfully from the corner, almost distracting Thea — _almost._ But then Thea catches sight of the second plate, untouched, on the table.

     Shit.

     “Barry…did you have company?” Thea asks, but this time she isn’t suspicious, or worried. She looks a little shocked, but definitely — definitely smug.

_Oh god._

     “You know, you didn’t have to pretend you had the flu while you were busy getting laid.”

_God. Is this worse than the truth?_

     Barry doesn’t know, but he has to roll with it so he does. He shucks one hand into his hair, pretending to look sheepish. “Oh, uh — I mean, it just sort of happened, you know.” Thea nods, like she does, which makes things ten times worse. “So, uh, you’re not mad?”

     Thea laughs, “No, Barry, I’m not mad. I mean, I _was_ short-staffed, goddammit…but I guess you’re allowed to have a day to yourself, if it means you’ve found someone. After all you’ve been through, it’s good.”

 _Good to have someone on your side,_ Thea means. Barry swallows the queasy feeling of lying and tapes on a smile.

     “Yeah, I — yeah. Thanks.”

     Thea laughs again. “So, cigarettes after sex? Really, Barry, and here I’d thought that was just a band you listened to.”

     Barry rolls his eyes, now fully done with this conversation about his fake sex life. “Okay, okay, Thea, would you mind — just — Thea.”

     Thea eyes Barry, then the uneaten plate, then Barry again. “Wait — is he _here?_ The alleyway guy? _Right now?”_ She eyes Barry’s closed bedroom door. She’s five inches of mahogany away from the truth.

     “How’d you know it was — okay, you know what, I don’t even want to — _Thea,”_ Barry repeats, shoveling his hands in his hair for wont of anything to do. He’s thankful he finally threw out the bandages _before_ Thea had arrived.

     Thea finally decides to let Barry out of his misery. “Alright, I’m going, I’m going.” With one hand on the doorknob Thea turns back to Barry. “I just worry for you, you know? Living in this city, it’s not easy to be alone. Especially after all you’ve left behind.”

     Barry drops his eyes down to the floor, feeling guilty but knowing this is an important moment for them. “Thanks, Thea,” he says in a soft voice.

     “I hope you bring him to the bar sometime,” Thea says with a gentle smile, before closing the door behind her.

_Oh, you have no idea how many times he’s already been there._

     “Yeah, that would be just stellar,” Barry mutters under his breath as he strides over to his room.

     He half-expects Oliver to be gone when he arrives, and sure enough, the window in his room is open. But Oliver’s there, standing close to the door with his crossbow in hand.

     When Barry pushes the door open further, revealing it’s just him, Oliver lowers the crossbow. The Vigilante steps back belatedly, shameless in his eavesdropping. Barry supposes if Oliver had heard something worth running for, he’d have jumped out the readily available window-escape.

     “Thea’s gone now,” Barry says quickly, eyeing the bow still in Oliver’s hand.

     “She thinks I’m sleeping with you,” Oliver states, so brazenly that Barry has to take a step back. Then Barry clamps a hand over his eyes. Sure enough, Oliver had heard everything.

     “Look, we both know it’s the lesser of two sins, alright? She doesn’t even know you’re…” Barry waves a hand at Oliver, “you know, _you._ Now if you’re sober enough to jump out the window, you might as well.” Scully patters into the room as Barry speaks, winding her furry tail around Barry’s ankles.

     Oliver arches an eyebrow at his suggestion.

     “I’ve seen stranger things,” Barry tells him.

     Oliver nods, then leaps out the open window and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the rest of the world, Barry's also watched _Stranger Things._ Like Eleven times. 
> 
> I have a lot of the story written out already, so updates will be fairly quick! For those that asked for a schedule, updates will most likely be once a week, every Monday :) (I know that’s a real random day but what better way to procrastinate on the week’s work than with Olivarry?)
> 
> Please let me know how I'm doin'! (Yay or nay to Scully, eh?)


	3. National Geographic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the support. I sincerely appreciate every kudos and comment! I'm ecstatic that you seem to be enjoying Barry and Thea's friendship, and like the addition of Scully.
> 
> Also, thanks to those that pointed out Oliver's bow is a compound bow, not a crossbow. All edits and criticisms are welcomed for this story, as I would love for it to be filled with canon-esque accuracies. I will be making edits once the story is finished (unless there is something glaringly wrong that needs to be fixed ASAP), and will fix little things like the type of bow, etc., at that time -- but feel free to continue letting me know your thoughts!

The third time Oliver comes to Barry’s, he is a welcome intrusion for once.

     It’s three in the morning. Barry’s tossing and turning in bed, dreaming of quick, yellow feet and a maniacal laughter as his mother screams at him to _run, Barry run —_

     Barry wakes drenched in sweat, his own scream ripping into the night air. He grapples with his sheets, suddenly convinced they are monster hands. When he wakes fully, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up. It’s clear there will be no more sleeping tonight.

     Barry pads over to his living room, which is dappled in moonlight from the two square windows near the door. The apartment is silent save for an occasional clanking from the AC.

     Barry pulls open the fridge door, surveying the contents inside. A head of lettuce, three different types of cheeses and a single, lonely watermelon slice. He definitely has to push grocery day up this week. Barry spots the carton lying on top of the dishwasher. It’s open, beckoning.

     A smoke, then. Barry searches around for his lighter, or a matchbook, but can’t for the life of him remember where either is. Finally, Barry settles on turning the gas stove on for a minute. He kneels to touch the tip of his cigarette to the flames and inhales.

     He’s only burned through a quarter of the cigarette when he hears a strange _clinking_ noise.

     It had come from his bedroom. Barry slinks out of the kitchen towards the room. He pushes against the door, which creaks open rustily. A darkly clothed figure lies facedown on the floor next to Barry’s dresser. A puddle of blood is already forming around the man’s stomach.

     “Hello?” Barry rasps out shakily, because although there’s only _one_ person who could possibly be knocked out in his room there’s a _slight chance_ this could be someone else.

     Barry knows that a chance at the impossible, however minuscule, has to be taken into consideration. Cigarette ash falls onto the floor as Barry waits.

     But when Barry flicks on the light, it is indeed Oliver. He’s passed out — yet again — and from the looks of it, not in the greatest shape.

     Yet again.

     “Third time’s the charm,” Barry tells himself, “not that this is charming, at all,” he adds to Oliver. “After all, you broke my window.” Oliver’s _definitely_ going to pay for that this time around.

     Barry still doesn’t have a new welcome mat. All that greets him every time he steps outside is a clean rectangle of ground, slightly paler than the cement surrounding it from lack of exposure to the sun. It’s a reminder that his once regular life has been abruptly interrupted.

     Oliver’s too heavy to drag all the way to the couch again, so Barry simply lifts the man and lays him on Barry’s mattress. Blood’s already seeping into the bed, but Barry’s sure attending to Oliver’s gaping wounds is more important than the purity of his (rather low) thread count.

     After Barry’s done stitching the horrible stab wound on Oliver’s side, as well as several gashes along the top of Oliver’s head, it’s five o’clock in the morning.

     He’s still wide awake. And his bed is taken, anyway.

     So Barry trots over to the living room, turns the TV on, and finishes his cigarette.

* * *

     Barry’s halfway through a documentary on the mating calls of whales when Oliver appears. He’s wearing Barry’s sweatpants (too long) and one of Barry’s shirts (too small). 

     “I thought you ran out of bandages,” is how Oliver greets him, standing silhouetted in the doorway to Barry’s bedroom.

     “I bought more,” Barry replies, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Considering.”

     “I’m in your clothes,” Oliver states, still standing.

     “I had to check — everything, in case.” Barry’s hyper aware that the Hood is staring at him, and that Oliver has enough intuition to know when someone’s nervous.

     “Right.” Oliver crosses the room, sitting down on the edge of Barry’s couch. “What are we watching?”

     Barry stiffens. It’s six-twenty in the morning, he has to open Oliver’s sister’s club in about three or so hours, and the Vigilante is watching whale documentaries with him after being attacked.

     There’s not much Barry can say other than, “National Geographic.”

     Slowly, as the documentary progresses, Oliver drifts from the armrest to sit one cushion away from Barry’s side. They stay like that, until the documentary is over.

     Barry sits up and stretches. “Well, I have to open _Ver_ — um, the bar…you know.” He halts, watching the way Oliver’s face has drooped throughout the program, how Oliver looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

     “You can, uh, you can stay here, if you need.” Barry doesn’t know Oliver’s living situation. Certainly the billionaire probably has more than enough places he _could_ sleep, but would they be private? Would people come snooping, wondering why his face looks like Mike Tyson’s punching bag?

     Is Barry’s apartment the only truly private place Oliver knows? Is that why he keeps coming here, nearly on death’s door?

     “I have a foundry,” Oliver says, as if reading Barry’s mind. “I can stay there.”

     “Okay,” Barry says. They stare at each other for a second. Barry’s still not sure why Oliver isn’t moving, then.

     “You know, I _did_ know who you were,” Oliver says suddenly, still watching Barry. His blue eyes are darker when they’re not directly under the light. “When I first woke up here, in your apartment. I knew you worked at _Verdant.”_

     Barry supposes he should have seen this coming. Of course the Vigilante knew. The Vigilante’s job is to be in the know, to observe without being seen himself.

     “I knew who you were,” Oliver says again, as if it is very important for Barry to hear this.

     “Oliver,” Barry starts, then stops. Starts again, “Oliver, are you trying to — to say you know about me and my — are you threatening me?”

     Because if Oliver’s trying to insinuate he _knows_ Barry’s life, his family, etc., then Barry’s going to rip those stitches he just put in right out. No one threatens Joe and Iris, not even if they don’t believe Barry. They’re still his family.

     “What? _No,”_ Oliver says, quickly putting two and two together. He looks frustrated. “I’m just saying, however I made it seem, it wasn’t like — you aren’t someone dispensable. Not just — ”

     “Oliver,” Barry interrupts, “I get it. You’re going to come here from now on when you’re on death’s door. Really, since the first time you showed up, I kind of got that this was going to happen.”

     Oliver’s still just sitting there, so Barry elaborates, “I’m not saying I’ve changed my mind about all this. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I’ve had enough secrets to last a lifetime. But if you need a place to stay,” here Barry sweeps his hand at the couch Oliver’s still sitting on, “I’m saying, you can stay. Even if you’ve got a…foundry.” Whatever that means.

     The Vigilante shifts on the couch, looking tired and weak and somehow incredibly human.

     “That’s not what I meant,” Oliver finally says, in a low voice. “I’m trying to say that you were memorable. Even before…all this. But…”

     And then, even quieter, so soft Barry’s almost convinced he imagines it, Oliver adds: “Thank you.”

     That’s how Barry ends up leaving for his shift with the Vigilante still watching television on his couch.

* * *

     Barry’s not sure he knows himself anymore. He’s been staring at the glass in his hand for about twenty minutes now, looking at his reflection staring back.

     What he’s concluded, however crazy as it sounds, is that the Barry in Starling City is not the same Barry as the one in Central City.

     Central City Barry is a forensic tech guy, who harbored a crush on Iris until it became way too clear she was meant to be with Eddie. Central City Barry doggedly researches his mother’s killer in his spare time, and tells everyone about the man in yellow. Accepts Joe’s well-meaning advice to stop with a nod and a smile and doesn’t listen.

     Starling City Barry knows how to make a Long Island. Starling City Barry doesn’t google about the supernatural, he doesn’t call Iris after a bad day, and he doesn’t ever, ever dare mention the man in yellow to anyone. Except Thea. But that was another thing. Starling City Barry has someone who believes his story. This version of Barry smokes for the first time since he was a teenager, he changes the channel when Star Labs comes on TV…and the most important difference is that he stitches up people who are wanted by the police.

     It’s like Barry is two very, very different people. He doesn’t know how to wrap his head around it. All Barry knows is that he’s been hurt in Central City. Joe doesn’t believe him. Iris sides with Joe. And Henry Allen remains behind bars, even after all the years Barry’s spent hunting for clues about the man in yellow.

     So Barry came here, to Starling City. He had been fed up, and he just wanted to _forget._

     He could have applied to be SCPD’s new forensic tech, but that wouldn’t really be leaving things behind. And the man in yellow who always appears in Barry’s dreams keeps him awake in time for night shifts, anyway. 

     Which works out in his favor, since _Verdant_ had a job opening.

     Barry sets the glass down with a sigh, staring into its contents like it will tell him what to do.

     “Got boy troubles?” Thea appears behind the bar, her voice echoing because no one’s really in the club yet. Barry starts, pushing the recently cleaned glass to where it belongs.

     “Uh…”

     “Is it the one-night stand guy? Or should I say…two nights now, huh?” Thea asks, pursing her lips in amusement when Barry goes a shade darker.

     “Really, I would rather not talk about it…” _Considering it’s your brother we’re talking about, and it’s not sex that’s got me hung up, it’s thirteen stitches to the ribs!_

     “Okay, but I’ll have you know, I’m going to meet him someday,” Thea promises, before going to the back to take inventory.

_I’m pretty sure you already have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final Oliver hurt/Barry fixes chapter before the plot picks up some more. Next chapter is Halloween night! (hint: will be fulfilling that cross-dressing tag)


	4. Two Birds With One Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are gorgeous beings of light and sunshine. Thank you for the continual support. May you always find a Pumpkin Spice Latte within your reach. And if you don't drink those, well...you should. (It's not basic if it's delicious.)

     Barry doesn’t see Oliver again until Halloween night. And then, he sees Oliver as _Oliver._

     “Hey boss,” says one of the newbies as Oliver Queen strides across the club. He’s appeared from one of the doors at the side of the club, one Barry’s never really looked inside of. 

     Oliver nods to the girl before taking a seat at the bar. Thea walks right up to him and says, “So, about tonight’s theme.”

     “No,” Oliver shakes his head, “I’ve already told you, I’m not doing it.”

     Thea crosses her arms. “This is half my bar too, Oliver. And I’ll bet _Tommy’s_ going to come in costume.”

     Oliver frowns. “I’ll come in a suit. That can be a costume, right? I’ll be a business man.”

     Thea rolls her eyes. “It’s not a _costume_ if you’re always wearing it, Ollie! Why don’t you pick something simple, like Superman or something?”

     This whole time Oliver hasn’t looked once at Barry, but at the mention of Superman Barry can’t help let out a little snort. Oliver and Thea both cut their eyes over to him.

     “What are you coming as, Bar?” Thea asks him warmly. Gazing at Barry over her shoulder, Oliver raises his eyebrow at the nickname.

     “Um, I wasn’t really planning on — ”

     “See, Thea, if even your staff isn’t dressing up — ”

     "Alright, _the both of you_ are coming in costume when Verdant opens tonight.” Thea’s adamant, and she’s technically Barry’s boss even if she’s his friend, so he promises to let her pick out an outfit for him. 

     It turns out to be, as most things Barry has let happen to him so far are, a big mistake. 

* * *

     Barry’s getting _looks._

     He’s really not surprised. It’s the outfit. It’s too much. He’d told Thea that, but she’d pulled the _I’m your boss and you’ll do what I say_ card, so here he was.

 Barry pours whiskey into a glass, trying to ignore the tight pull of his shirt at the action. A guy at the end of the bar is staring at him. Barry wishes he wouldn’t.  _I know I look ridiculous, you don’t have to point it out with your eyes._

     Barry’s legs are fully exposed, cut off only by tight red denim shorts. Red seems to be the theme, actually. Barry’s wearing a glittery red shirt that accentuates his collarbones and tapers to fit snugly around his narrow waist. His cheeks are smattered in rouge. And finally, Barry’s lips are a deep scarlet. 

     Apparently he’s the Scarlet Bartender. Barry’s ninety percent sure Thea made it up. 

     No, he’s a hundred percent sure. 

     The girl in question is behind the bar with him, watching him in satisfaction while she handles the cash register. “Barry, tonight your boy troubles will definitely be over.”

     As she speaks, Oliver appears at the counter. Barry groans. Despite the club being full now, he’s sure Oliver’s Vigilante hearing picked up on Thea’s words. As if on cue, Oliver shoots him a commiserative look. 

     And then keeps staring. 

     Barry wants to roll his eyes, because he’s seen Oliver _nearly naked,_ okay, he’s _stitched up_ Oliver’s inner thigh. If anyone should be embarrassed right now it’s Oliver, yet Barry can’t help the blush rising in his cheeks as Oliver gives him an obvious glance.

     Thea notices. She looks from Oliver to Barry — the latter pretending he’s only familiar with Oliver because Oliver is his bosses brother — then back. 

     “Oliver, can Barry get you a drink?” Thea asks, and the _implications_ in her voice are ridiculously strong. Barry feels like throwing something. 

     “Don’t laugh, okay?” Barry warns Oliver as the man struts over. Oliver’s just wearing a suit, so it’s obvious he’s not as susceptible to Thea’s persuasive techniques as Barry is. 

     It doesn’t help that Oliver looks impeccable as usual. It makes Barry feel absolutely ridiculous. 

     “This is what Thea picked out for me tonight. I told her the shoes were a bit much, but she said I needed to wear — what was the name? Oh, right,” Barry wrinkles his nose, “fuck me pumps.”

     Oliver makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. Barry does roll his eyes this time. 

     “Yes, I know, it’s ridiculous. Just remember I’m still able to mend bullet wounds,” Barry grimaces. “Now, what did you want to drink…Oliver?” Barry halts as Oliver noticeably leans over the counter, brushing against Barry’s arm. 

     “…What are you doing?”

     “My sister,” Oliver leans in closer to reach Barry’s ear as he whispers, “is watching. If I don’t hit on you, she’ll get suspicious.”

     “She’ll get suspicious if you _don’t_ hit on me?” Barry gapes, too shocked to move away yet. 

     Oliver gives him a little, almost imperceptible shrug. “She knows my expression for when I’m attracted to something…” Oliver sneaks a glance behind Barry’s shoulder before speaking again, “…and she’ll expect me to follow up with a move.”

     Barry frowns, utterly confused. _She knows my expression for when I’m attracted to something…_ but Oliver can’t be attracted to Barry — can he? After the crazy way they’d met, after all of Oliver’s suspicion of him…and while Barry’s dressed like _this,_ of all moments? 

     It sounds ridiculous. And it is. 

     “Okay, hit me with a one-liner and let me brush it off,” Barry responds. Oliver frowns at him. 

     “You wouldn’t brush me off if I hit you with one of my one-liners,” he says, and Barry has to laugh because just how arrogant is that?

     Oliver looks pleased when Barry throws his head back and belatedly Barry realizes that they’re playing perfectly into Oliver’s plan. Now it probably looks like Barry’s just been charmed by Oliver. 

     And he can’t really brush Oliver off now, can he? Not without it looking suspicious. Barry sighs. “You’re really dedicated to this double life, aren’t you?” 

     Oliver cocks his head at the question. He’s looking at Barry in this weird way, kind of the way he had when Barry said Oliver could stay and watch TV on his couch. It’s a scrutinizing look, half-confused, half…pleased? Barry can’t tell anymore. 

     But when Barry mentions a double life, Oliver’s eyes dim. Barry wants to take it back, knowing it was probably inappropriate to say, but…well, he’s done enough for Oliver that he can ask a simple question, right?

     “And what about you?” Oliver retorts. “Not always a bartender, huh? You’re a long way from Central City.”

     Barry freezes. He jerks away from Oliver as if the other man’s touch is white-hot. “Excuse me?”

     “I had…one of my people…look you up,” Oliver responds slowly, eyeing Barry’s reaction with curiosity. “She was very thorough.”

     “You had _no right,”_ Barry begins, but Oliver cuts him off.

     “It’s nothing personal. I just had to make sure you weren’t working for someone,” Oliver shrugs like it’s no big deal he’s just dug into Barry’s life. And had some stranger to help him do it. 

     Barry stares at Oliver, anger rushing toward him like a tidal wave. “ _Working for someone?”_ He spits out. “Yeah, like I’d let myself be hired to hurt you by some shady character, then turn around and _save your life?_ Like three times?”

     Barry spins around, snatching his arm out of Oliver’s grasp. He knows he’s overreacting, that Oliver’s just taking the necessary precautions, but it still smarts. Just another person who doesn’t believe him. After all those times Oliver’s nearly bled out on his floor! 

     And Oliver probably knows now, all about Barry’s past — _she was thorough._ Does that mean Oliver knows not only that Barry’s father supposedly killed his mother, but also that Barry protested it wasn’t him but a man in yellow? Oliver and “his people” probably got a kick out of that one. They probably laughed at the poor, crazy sap who cried over a murderer and always had extra needles in his first aid kit. 

     Barry catches Thea watching him worriedly as he leaves, but he doesn’t care. He’s too shaken up to think about what a mess he’s made with Oliver’s pretenses. Let Thea be suspicious. _She has a right to be._

     Barry storms away to the men’s bathroom, looking for a quiet space to just _breathe._ He instinctively pats his pockets before remembering that he’s wearing this _ridiculously tight_ costume that doesn’t have space to hold his cigarettes. 

     God, what a horrible night this is shaping up to be! _Halloween is stupid,_ Barry decides as a drunken Dracula bursts out of a stall and shoulders past him. 

     The door to the bathroom opens just when Dracula approaches it, making the costumed man startle back. “Watch it dude,” Dracula snarks to the newcomer, before disappearing onto the crowded club floor. 

     “Barry!”

     Barry swivels around to see it's Oliver who has followed him into the bathroom. He’s exactly the last person Barry wants to see right now. 

     Barry ignores Oliver, striding over instead to the mirror. It’s a mistake, because Barry catches a glimpse of his reflection, with the stupid lipstick. _Ugh._

     Oliver comes to stand behind Barry, his bright blue eyes visible through the mirror. 

     “Look, I didn’t actually just come over to pretend hit on you,” Oliver starts. “I’ve been meaning to thank you. For all those times you stitched me up.”

     Barry looks over his shoulder in surprise. Oliver gives him a relieved glance. 

     “My people…my _team…_ have told me I can be kind of hard to read. And you yourself have told me to just say it like it is, so…here’s me saying it like it is.” Then Oliver gives him a little half-shrug. 

     Barry takes a deep breath. “I’m not some file for you to peruse, Oliver — and I’m not a medic.” Oliver has the right to know that, considering he’s put his life in Barry’s hands thrice now. 

     “Yes, I know, you’re a forensic scientist,” Oliver says, and then he probably realizes this negates the whole _I’m not a file_ thing so he shakes his head. “I mean, I — look, it’s not just for me, alright? Any new members of my team…they affect my entire team. I had to know for sure I could trust you, for my safety as well as theirs.”

     Barry’s shocked. “I’m part of your team?”

     Oliver shuffles back, and Barry realizes he’s seeing the Vigilante _nervous._ Of _Barry._ “If you want to be.”

     Barry folds his arms over his chest. He knows what he said when Oliver first came to him, that he didn’t want any more secrets. But after the third time Oliver collapsed at his place, he’d realized that the Vigilante kind of needs this. Needs him. And that gives him a stupidly happy feeling, like Barry’s making a difference despite running away from his problems back home. 

     Ever since he stopped trying to find the man in yellow Barry’s wrestled with guilt. His father’s rotting in prison and what’s Barry doing? Pouring cocktails for preppy clubbers at _Verdant._ Helping Oliver has eased that guilt a little, because Barry knows the Vigilante is helping people. So by extension, by helping Oliver, _Barry_ is helping people. 

     But Barry has to know something. “Did your…research…give you an answer? _Can_ you trust me?” Barry asks. Because he’s not about to have yet another person in his life who doesn’t believe him. 

     “Yes.” Oliver’s answer is readily supplied. He bores his eyes into Barry’s, and his voice is heartfelt and honest. Barry knows Oliver is telling the truth. That’s enough, for now. 

     “I’m not saying I’m completely on board…but I’ll be here for you, when you need me to be,” Barry says finally. _When you need me to stitch you up again._

     Oliver nods, and he looks even more relieved. He takes a step forward and places it on Barry’s shoulder. “When you’re ready to ask questions…you deserve to know some answers,” he says. “Just ask.”

     Barry’s surprised the Vigilante is going to be so forthcoming. But he supposes he already broke through all of Oliver’s pretenses and barriers when he found the man unconscious in _Verdant’s_ dumpster. 

     It occurs to Barry, now that he knows the Vigilante is Oliver, that Oliver may have passed out there because it was so close to Oliver’s home. 

     “I do have a favor to ask right now, though,” Oliver says. Barry raises one eyebrow. “Thea saw us come in here, so —“ Oliver coughs. “We’ll have to…show her…that we’ve made up.”

     _Or I can be the one person who_ doesn’t _fall all over Oliver Queen,_ Barry thinks, but he knows that probably won’t fly. Barry’s not a billionaire, he’s just a bartender. He’s supposed to be absolutely smitten with the idea of Oliver. It would probably look suspicious if he was the anomaly. 

     “ _Fine,_ ” Barry sighs heavily, resigning himself to his fate. “What do we have to do?”

     “Just — here,” Oliver’s suddenly in his personal space, untucking Barry’s shirt from his shorts. “There. And I’ll…” Oliver unbuttons a couple of his shirt buttons, making Barry roll his eyes. 

     “Seriously? Are you trying to make it seem like we'd -- but in the bathroom?” He asks. Oliver doesn’t even look like he understands why Barry’s so shocked. Barry rolls his eyes again — he’s going to get eye strain — and decides if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. He reaches over to loosen Oliver’s tie. 

     Oliver jumps back as if Barry’s touch is electric. He lets out a startled breath, the air ghosting across Barry’s fingers which are high up on Oliver’s chest.

     “Hey, I’m just making this believable,” Barry reminds him. “I thought this was your idea.”

     Oliver presses his mouth in a thin line before stepping back into Barry’s space. He lets Barry reach up and mess with his hair a little — and since _when_ did _this_ become Barry’s life? — and slip Oliver’s blazer off one shoulder.

     Barry steps back to view his handiwork. “Looks good,” he says, blushing when he realizes how that sounds. But Oliver merely smirks. 

     “Not completely done,” the other man says. “You’ve still got your shoes on.”

     “My — what?” Barry blinks, staring down at his toes. “What does that have to do with — ”

     “I’d take them off,” Oliver says, his voice low and heated and making Barry feel off for some reason. “Okay,” Barry says, obliging Oliver and stepping out of the pumps. He looks mournfully down at them. 

     “I thought you didn’t like the outfit?” Oliver says, his voice almost teasing. 

     “I don’t, but — these are Thea’s. She’ll kill me if I lose them,” Barry sighs, making Oliver laugh. 

     “She’ll get over it,” Oliver says, before kicking the shoes away into a corner. “I don’t see why I couldn’t just remember to put them back on,” Barry grumbles, watching them skitter across the bathroom floor. 

     “Trust me, if we did what we’re pretending to do — you’d forget,” Oliver intones, making Barry flush again. Barry can’t believe how Oliver could be so confident. 

     He wants to tell himself it’s annoying, but there’s a little part of him that rebels against that. Barry’s stomach does somersaults when he realizes he’s a little turned on and — _god, seriously, when did this become his life?_

     Barry avoids looking Oliver directly in the eye as they leave the bathroom. 

     They step out into the dance floor, Barry carefully navigating through the masses so he won’t get his bare feet stepped on. Oliver leads, telling Barry he’ll go first in case there’s glass on the floor that they can’t see. After all, Oliver’s still got his shoes on. Barry has to admit Oliver’s foresight is kind of chivalrous, and — oddly normal.

     When Barry’s finally back behind the bar, Oliver jolts like he just remembered something. 

     “Barry! You’re wearing lipstick,” Oliver says, making Barry groan again. 

     “Yes, I’m highly aware of that embarrassing detail, thanks,” Barry moans. The guy who was staring from before is still sitting there watching Barry, which is crazy because he and Oliver have been gone for a good while now. 

     And they look like they did — _stuff._

     Why couldn’t the guy just leave?

     “No, I mean —“ Oliver runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Your lipstick isn’t smudged at all, and I haven’t gotten any on my skin. It wouldn’t be that way, if we — you know.”

     Barry wipes a hand across his lips, grateful for an excuse to do so. Oliver’s eyes trace the action. “There,” Barry offers. 

     Oliver shakes his head. “It’s still there, Thea must have used that smudge-proof stuff she has…here —” Oliver reaches forward and gently grasps the back of Barry’s neck. Using one hand, Oliver slowly brushes one thumb across Barry’s lips, deliberately smudging it. 

     Then Oliver, still holding onto Barry, presses the thumb onto his own neck leaving a scarlet stain on the skin. At Barry’s wide eyes, Oliver explains, “more proof.”

     Barry’s skin tingles at the touch of Oliver’s warm fingers against the nape of his neck. But the stain looks like a red streak, more a strange accident than a kiss mark. Barry sighs, knowing what he has to do. 

     “Hold still,” he tells Oliver, before leaning in. Oliver freezes as Barry presses his lips against Oliver’s collarbone, which is exposed thanks to Barry popping open a few buttons back in the bathroom. He lets his lips linger there a while, hoping the faint press of his lips have transferred a convincing scarlet mark onto Oliver’s skin. 

     When Barry pulls back, Oliver looks slightly dazed. Barry supposes the Vigilante has never been fake-kissed there before. Hell, Oliver Queen has probably never been _fake_ -kissed before period. 

     Barry finds it a relief that he’s not the only one going through a weird night. 

     “Uh — good work,” Oliver says, when he catches his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. There’s a faint, crimson imprint of Barry’s lips right over the jut of Oliver’s collarbone. It definitely looks convincing. 

     Barry turns to see the man who had been staring looking faintly depressed before scooting away from the bar. “Two birds with one stone,” he mutters to himself. 

     “What was that?” 

     “Oh, nothing…there was a creeper at the end of the bar that finally went away once he saw me kiss you,” Barry explains to Oliver. 

     Oliver’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners at Barry’s words. “I’m not surprised,” he says. “You realize you look less ridiculous in that outfit than you think, right?”

     Barry gapes at him, wordless. 

     Overall, it’s a very weird night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Next chap: Barry meets Felicity.


	5. Not The Canterbury Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since many have asked (and I'm so encouraged by the genuine curiosity for this story, thank you!), I will make a quick note about Barry's powers in relation to this story. 
> 
> As of now, I am not planning on having Barry become the Flash in this fic. However, this doesn't mean his canon superhero future is off the table completely (certain things will be alluded to in the epilogue)...but no Flash!Barry for the actual story itself. Hope that clears things up/you are still interested! :)

     Barry’s not sure when Ladie’s Night became an excuse for Thea to start gossiping about Barry’s (very hypothetical) love life, but here he is. Trying to make two Sex on the Beaches while Thea and a bunch of her female friends peer at him, demanding answers.

     “Barry! You _have_ to tell me, he’s my _brother.”_

     Barry plunks an orange wheel on the rim of one glass, pointedly _not_ answering Thea’s question. No, he wasn’t going to tell Thea if he had sex with Oliver Queen in the men’s bathroom a week ago.

     “Isn’t the fact that he’s your brother kind of why I _shouldn’t_ talk to you about this?” Barry intones, sliding the drinks over to her friends. They ignore the drinks, settling on giving him pressing looks.

     “Oh please, I’ve stumbled on him in the act more times than I can count,” Thea scoffs, shrugging lightly. “A little detail won’t even faze me.”

     Barry winces. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

     Thea giggles, ducking her head down to try and meet his eyes. “Earth to Barry! Since when did you have _two_ guys on your heels? Ever since you came here you’ve expressed no interest in dating.”

 _It’s only one guy,_ Barry thinks. _Strictly speaking, it’s actually no guys, considering it’s all a charade._ Barry’s not sure when he started getting good at living this double life, but he has. Oliver’s definitely in the lead, considering he’s the one shooting arrows at night and wearing suits during the day, but Barry’s getting pretty good at the whole duality thing now.

     Oliver hasn’t dropped by (quite literally on his face while unconscious) at Barry’s lately, but he’s still shown up. Asked for bandages for his wrist, or an icepack for his face, or if Barry knew how to get rid of excess blood before the SCPD arrived at a place Oliver had been wounded at.

     Barry’s a reverse Vigilante in terms of his schedule. While Oliver does his thing at night, Barry’s real job is during the night shift at _Verdant._ And while Oliver is _Oliver_ during the day, the early morning is when Barry patches Oliver up.

     Now that Barry is tentatively on Oliver’s team, Oliver doesn’t hesitate in asking these little favors when it comes to scrapes or crime scenes. They aren’t operating on Barry’s ultimatum of I’m-not-involved-unless-you’re-dying anymore.

     Barry had given Oliver grief when he’d found out the foundry was in _Verdant,_ though.

     “What! _That’s_ where the mystery door leads to?!” Barry exclaimed incredulously. “The staff members and I have a running pool about where the door leads. Now I’ll never win the bet!”

     Oliver had just smirked at him.

     “Don’t you think this is kind of the thing you should tell the guy who _works at Verdant?”_ Barry had said. He’d stitched the Vigilante up at his house! When all this time he could have just done it at Verdant…

     “Well, I didn’t know it would matter until now,” Oliver replied. “Now, you’re really a part of this. So now you know. Besides, your house was closer to the places I got injured at.”

     It made sense, Barry had agreed grudgingly, but Oliver still showed up at Barry’s after that whenever he was wounded. Barry guessed Oliver wouldn’t want to risk connecting the Vigilante with _Verdant_ if he could help it. And, after all, it would be harder to sneak unseen into the club when injured than Barry’s place.

     “I seriously can’t believe you,” Barry had grumbled, shooting fake-but-actually-real glares in Oliver’s direction. Scully, dozing lightly on Barry’s lap, had purred consolingly at him.

     “Wait a minute…” Oliver had stared as another cat emerged from under Barry’s sofa. “Who is _this?”_

     “That’s Mulder,” Barry had said, cheerfully petting his new friend. “He came to me a couple nights ago.”

     “Where do these cats _come from?”_

     Presently, Barry smirks as he remembers Oliver’s incredulous tone. Thea catches the look, smacking him on the arm.

     “I knew it! You’re _so_ thinking about him right now, you _so did it in the bathroom with Oliver!”_

     “Oh my god Thea,” Barry groans. He’s extremely grateful when a customer sidles up to the bar.

     “One Bloody Mary, please.” The woman who came up to him is blonde, her light hair strung up in a neat ponytail. She’s wearing over-sized glasses and a bright, infectious smile. Barry warms up to her immediately.

     He kind of hates that he does, because it makes him feel too at home. Somehow, he’s becoming the Barry in Central City again. Maybe colluding with Oliver, finding a purpose again, is lifting him out of his funk. And being friends with Thea meant breaking down those walls he had put up ever since Joe made it clear he’d never believe Barry about the man in yellow.

     Barry knows feeling like himself again is good, but he’s skeptical of it all. It’s too dangerous, this feeling of comfort. It’s what got him hurt in the first place.

     Besides, Thea might believe Barry about the man in yellow, but it didn’t mean _Oliver_ did. Maybe Oliver’s just dealing with Barry’s “crazy” because Barry knows how to sew a guy up. Who even knows?

     And why did Barry care, anyway? He was supposed to stay distant from whatever the Vigilante was doing, not suddenly start caring about the man’s opinion.

     Seriously, what was happening? Barry shakes himself out of his reverie as he makes the woman’s drink.

_Stop making this more complicated than it really is. You make drinks at night, you do a little suturing in the morning. It’s not The Canterbury Tales — your life is straightforward, not a jumble of complex English diction._

     It’s kind of crazy that Barry considers his life ‘straightforward’, considering he’s saved a man from dying about five times now. He guesses _this_ is less insane than seeing a man in yellow flash around his house, though. So that’s why.

     The woman accepts her drink, pays her tab, but lingers at the bar simply observing Barry make drinks. It’s a little unnerving, but she doesn’t seem malicious. Just — curious.

     “Can I help you, m’am?” Barry asks, once he’s done serving other customers. He keeps his voice level and polite.

     The woman laughs a bit. “You can call me Felicity.” She pauses. “It’s only fair you know my name since I know yours, Barry Allen.”

     Barry freezes. The woman looks calm, too calm for such a strange encounter, and she’s looking at him like she can read his story on his face.

 _My people…she was thorough…_ “You’re on the team,” Barry realizes.

     Felicity straightens up. “Yes! And it’s so good to finally meet you, you know, after the way Oliver keeps going on about you and your cats…” she breaks off, flushing. “Not that I creepily know everything about you, of course. Well, I mean I do, getting information is what I do for a living — oh god, I’m scaring you, aren’t I?”

     “Um,” Barry says eloquently, laughing a bit because Felicity doesn’t seem imposing at all. She’s harmless really, kind of _nice,_ actually. But he’s still wary because he doesn’t really know anything about her, and says as much.

     “Oh, I’m Oliver’s IT contact. I get information that he needs regarding cases or, or whatever,” Felicity backtracks suddenly, looking shocked. Barry guesses Oliver has told her that Barry’s still not keen on _knowing secrets_.

     “It’s alright,” Barry reassures her, not really knowing if it is but feeling like he needs to make her feel better. He knows she’s not intentionally trying to rile him up. “Is Oliver okay?”

     “He’s fine,” Felicity says, reassuring him back. “I came here on my own, actually. Just trying to meet you, if that’s alright.”

     “Yeah, I guess you have a right to be curious,” Barry mused, almost to himself. All Barry really knew was that Oliver had two people on his team, Felicity and another person. And apparently a lawyer who helps give Oliver information from time to time. Barry would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit curious himself.

     “You’ve really helped Oliver out a lot, you know,” Felicity says, keeping her voice hushed when Thea looks over at them curiously. “He might not ever say it, but we’re all really thankful you’re part of our team.”

     Barry’s surprised, and pleased at the same time. “Uh — thanks,” he says, shocked.

     “You should visit the foundry sometime. Ask Oliver first, of course, but I know he’d say yes. He’s just waiting to see if you want to,” Felicity tells Barry, then backtracks again. “Not that there’s any pressure, or anything, I mean — you don’t _have_ to.”

     Barry shakes his head, “No, I do want to, I just don’t know if I should. There have been — things have been — things are complicated.” He drags a hand through his dark hair as he babbles. He’s pretty sure, with all the stuttering between him and Felicity, someone’s going to think they’ve both had one too many drinks.

     “I know.” Felicity looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…”

     Barry shakes his head again. “No, I understand why…”

     God, the pair of them.

     Barry laughs awkwardly, and Felicity cracks a grin at him. “I’m just glad you’re on our team,” she says finally. He nods and slowly smiles back, comforted and confused.

     “Well, I have to go. Gotta get up early tomorrow for my real job,” she chuckles again. “It was nice finally meeting you, Barry Allen.”

     “You too, Felicity.” He has a feeling this will not be the last time they will meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pins are all set. Now let's knock 'em down for chapter six. Hint: Protective!Oliver tag will be coming in full force. 
> 
> This chappie was quite short and calm, and I'm very excited for the next one which is already written...so there may be a sneaky second update within the week! Keep a lookout!


	6. Since When Is That The Rule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we have two shortish chapters this week in which things happen...next week will deal with the aftermath.
> 
> Warning for non-con behavior. Tags have been updated accordingly.

     The unfortunate thing about working the night shift, at any establishment but especially a bar, is that Barry meets some of the most unsavory people. Like the guy currently in front of him, for example. Drunk, distressed, and not at all taking the hint.

     “You look like you could use a drink,” the man says (for the third time). “It’s on me.”

     “Really, man, I _work_ here,” Barry sighs, struggling to maintain his serene customer-service voice. “That’s basically like giving a menu to a waiter.”

     The man laughs, as if Barry is trying to make a joke rather than an actual point. He leans further across the bar, practically draping himself on the counter. “Come ooooon, hot stuff.”

 _Hot stuff?_ Barry looks wildly around. How is there no one here to witness that absurd line but him?

     Thankfully, Thea appears right when the man looks like he’s about to army-crawl his way across the counter to Barry.

     “Sir, we’ve been getting complaints about your behavior,” she says, crossing her arms with an unusually severe look on her face. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.” Hearing her dark tone, Barry’s glad _he's_ not the one pissing her off.

     “Who’s complainin’?” The man slurs angrily. “ _Him?”_ The man points sloppily in Barry’s direction. _“_ ‘Cause he’s the only one I’ve been talking to and I’m pretty sure he’s not complainin’.”

     Thea looks unimpressed. “Please leave, _now,_ or I’ll ask for security to escort you out.”

     “Fine! I’m going, I’m _going,”_ the man hisses at her. She doesn’t even flinch. The man curses once, twice, before setting his drink down and slinking away.

     “Thanks,” Barry breaths out a sigh of relief, giving Thea a grateful smile. She pats him on the back. “Anytime, Bar. You gotta give the creeps ultimatums, because they don’t understand a regular _no_ when they hear it,” Thea says sagely, before walking away to tend to another customer.

     The amount of people is winding down since it’s relatively late in the night. Or early in the morning, whichever way you want to look at it. Soon the DJ starts announcing that it’s last call.

     The regulars groan, although they’re already expecting it, hurrying to place their final drink orders. When the last customers finally trickle out the door, Barry’s already wiped down the counter and placed all the liquor in their respective places behind the bar.

     Thea shoots him an impressed look. “That’s the fastest I’ve seen you close, like, _ever.”_

     Barry gives her a tired, yet sincere grin. He did a rapid job closing down the bar because it’s been a long night, and if he needs to be awake enough to stitch up the Vigilante tomorrow morning then he’s got to get to bed right away.

     Once the cash register is secured, Barry is on his way, already shouldering his satchel. He calls his goodbyes to Thea and the others over his shoulder.

     The night air is cool and crisp. It’s late November, with Thanksgiving just around the corner. It feels weird to think about celebrating a holiday without Joe and Iris. It makes Barry sad to even think about it.

     He misses them. It’s a growing ache in his heart, but the hurt knowing they still _pity_ him rather than believe him still weighs heavy on his shoulders. Keeps him from taking the next train to Central City for the holidays.

     He’s not even sure they’d want to see him, anymore. After ducking Iris’s calls for so many months, she’s finally stopped texting him on the daily. And would Joe think Barry leaving was him just running away from the truth? Even though it’s _Barry_ who knows the truth, and it’s Joe who won’t listen?

     Barry’s so preoccupied with his thoughts as he turns the corner of _Verdant_ that he’s not really paying much attention to his surroundings. When a figure steps away from the wall and into the light from the streetlamp, Barry jumps in shock.

     “Hello, hot stuff.” It’s the man from before, but he looks much more sober now. His words aren’t coming out slurred, either. He’s had enough time since he was kicked out of _Verdant_ to get his head on straight.

     Which is why Barry’s not expecting the man to start coming toward him, in quick, measured steps.

     “Uh — sir,” Barry tacks on the formality last minute, because somehow treating this man like a customer makes it feel like there’s some semblance of a barrier between them.

     But the man keeps coming toward him, crowding Barry against the side of _Verdant._ “I’ve been waiting for you,” the man says eagerly, placing one hand on either side of Barry’s body.

_What? What a creep!_

     “ _Sir,”_ Barry says again, more firmly this time as he ducks from under the man’s arms and quickly steps farther away. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, in actuality hoping he never sees the man again.

     But when Barry tries to leave, the man grabs his wrist to stop him. His grip is vice-like, Barry finds out, as he tugs to get free.

     “Get _off_ of me!” Barry shouts, panicking now as he tries to pull away. The man ignores him, pushing him toward the wall again.

     “Let GO,” Barry snarls angrily, making to duck under his arms again, but the man slams one hand against his chest to stop him. Barry doubles over as the air leaves his lungs. The man takes advantage of Barry’s momentary lack of breath to shove him against the wall.

     Barry’s outrage turns to fear as the man presses in close, sticking one thigh between Barry’s legs, splaying them open. His heart speeds up in his chest. “Stop!” Barry yells, swinging one arm around. Barry’s just as surprised as the man is when Barry’s fist collides with the man’s face, making the offender stumble back.

 _Holy crap, that actually worked!_ Barry’s pretty sure he’s never successfully assaulted someone before. It’s a very foreign feeling. He immediately hates it, but it had to be done. The man reels back, swearing and clutching his bleeding nose.

     “You little fucker,” the man snarls, reaching toward Barry, but Barry ducks away.

 _“Thea!”_ Barry yells as he side-steps the man, hoping she’s still close enough to hear him. “Call the — ” He goes to duck under the man’s arms again, but gets a blow to the stomach for his efforts. Barry folds onto his knees on the ground, gasping for breath, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

     The man grins at him, quick and dirty. “Your little girlfriend’s not here to help you this time,” the man chuckles, looming over him. He grabs Barry by the collar and drags him upwards. Barry chokes as his own shirt loops around his neck, cutting off his air supply.

     “Hel — p,” Barry barely coughs out the word as the man slams him against the wall again. Barry’s head cracks against the brick and he sees stars.

     And then the man’s tilting his head back, forcing his mouth open, plunging his tongue down Barry’s throat. Barry whimpers, scrunching his face up in disgust and pain.

     Suddenly, the man’s off of him. The man’s foul lips, even his tight hold around Barry’s collar, all vanish. Barry sucks in a deep, strangled breath, relishing the air.

     He opens his eyes when he hears the scream. What Barry sees makes his breath catch in his throat.

     The Vigilante is looming over the man, who’s on his back scrambling to get away. There’s an arrow embedded deep in the man's side, and Oliver’s already got his bow cocked back to fire again.

     Barry gasps, then leaps into motion. “Wait — no!” Barry croaks out, voice hoarse.

     Oliver turns to face him, and Barry realizes it’s not Oliver at all. It’s the Hood, completely and utterly, not a trace of the billionaire in sight. There’s a wild gleam in the Vigilante’s painted eyes, a trembling in his shoulders that betrays how close the Vigilante is to snapping.

     “This man dies,” the Vigilante says, in a strange, booming mechanical voice that Barry’s heard about in the news but never actually witnessed with his own ears before. His spine crawls at the sound and for a second Barry’s petrified.

_This is the man I’ve been stitching up? This is the man I left in my apartment to watch National Geographic while I went to work?_

     Barry can’t believe he’s never truly known what he’s been dealing with this entire time. He’s been so stupid, so naive.

     The Vigilante is a killer. Barry’s known this, but somehow he thought the killings happened in a moment of utter desperation, in order to stop something horrible from continuing. Not in the middle of an abandoned street after a man’s already been incapacitated.

     “ _No,”_ Barry says fiercely, rising on shaky legs. “Do _not_ shoot that arrow, Ol — Vigilante.”

     Although Barry’s mostly expecting his words to have no affect, the Vigilante actually stops. “He hurt you,” the masked man says slowly. “So he dies.”

 _What? Since when is that the rule?_ Barry steps closer to the man, then remembers he doesn’t know who he’s really dealing with. Steps even closer anyway.

     “Don’t,” Barry says softly. He’s close enough that the Vigilante can still hear him. Barry raises one trembling hand and places it on the Hood’s bow. Slowly, Barry increases pressure on the bow, lowering it until it’s no longer pointed in the man’s direction.

     “What the hell, man! Oh my God! I’m dying,” the man’s blabbering, screaming and crying as he stares at them both. “Oh God, oh God…”

     “Hey, hey,” Barry says, somehow _comforting_ the man who had just been about to — what? Assault him? That doesn’t mean Barry wants to see him die. Barry pulls out his phone and dials 911. Before he presses _call,_ he turns to the Vigilante.

     “You might want to get out of here,” Barry warns him.

     The Vigilante watches the proceedings with a neutral expression on, but even through the voice-scrambler Barry can hear his incredulity. “You’re going to aid this man?”

     “Go, before they come,” Barry urges him. “ _Go!”_

     The Vigilante steps forward, assessing Barry’s body as if cataloguing the injuries there. Then his eyes slide to the man responsible for them. The Vigilante looks torn, but when Barry presses the _call_ button he whips the bow behind him and takes off swiftly in the other direction.

     Fingers trembling, neck still bruised and one hand staunching the flow of blood from the simpering man’s wound, Barry watches him go.


	7. Like A Bookmark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the continual support. You are all inspiring af. My darlings <3

     When Barry finishes giving his statement to Detective Lance — in which he adamantly states he knows nothing about the Vigilante, or why the masked man decided to help _him_ of all people — he’s taken to the hospital. 

     The doctor who assesses him bandages the cut on his head, prescribes medicine for the pain, hands him an icepack — and in soothing, professional tones lets Barry know that there’s a bed at the hospital where he can stay the night if Barry needs.

     Barry doesn’t need.

     Barry just wants to go home, light one up (or not, he’s trying to quit but it’s difficult when these things keep happening to him), and take a nap with Scully and Mulder. His nerves are frayed, and he can’t help _remembering_ the way Oliver had looked that night.

     So wild. So _different_ than the man Barry had patched up time and time again. That injured man had been hurting, vulnerable in a way that Barry had forgotten was rare for Oliver.

     Barry discharges himself from the hospital and calls a cab. He’s only been waiting about five minutes when someone approaches him. She came from around the other entrance, so Barry didn’t notice she was there until she spoke.

     “Um…Barry?” Felicity stammers, standing a little ways off with her coat in her hands. She looks more nervous than usual, and approaches him like Barry’s a skittish animal. But when she takes in his appearance, her gaze softens.

     “Oh my god, it really _was_ bad,” she murmurs, reaching toward him instinctively. Barry flinches back, and she stops, a horrified look on her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry — I didn’t mean to startle you!” She exclaims softly, taking a big step back.

     Barry regards her. “Felicity…why are you here?” He cuts straight to the point. He’s tired, and he just wants to get home, not make nice with the messenger. “Did…he…send you?” For some reason, Barry can’t say Oliver’s name. Doesn’t know how it will sound anymore, coming out of his mouth.

     Felicity nods slowly. “He wanted to make sure you were alright. I told him you were checked in here, and there were no life-threatening wounds, but when you self-discharged he asked me to come see for sure…that you were okay. He would have come himself but he got a call…for something.”

     Felicity’s words should be soothing, but all Barry can think about was how Oliver wanted to _kill_ that man, all in the name of making sure Barry was okay. And now Oliver was apparently out as the Vigilante again, doing god knows what after who knows what kind of call.

     “ _Are_ you okay, Barry?” Felicity presses gently, waiting patiently for Barry to regroup his thoughts.

     “I — I don’t know,” Barry admits. Felicity nods, like she’s expecting him to be this way.

     “It’s a lot to take in,” she agrees. “I wasn’t so sure myself, at first. But no matter how he was tonight, as the Vigilante…he’s still Oliver.”

     “You didn’t see him,” Barry says, “you didn’t see the way he — god, Felicity, he was going to — I can’t talk about this right now.” Barry sees the cab he called pull up the curb. “I have to go.”

     “What? Barry, wait!” Felicity calls after him, but Barry flees, sliding into the cab. When he chances a look backwards, he sees Felicity watch him go with a sad frown on her face. He feels horrible at just ditching her, but he has to _think_ by himself for a bit.

     It’s all too overwhelming — the pain in his abdomen from the man’s kicking, the imprint of Oliver’s wild eyes when Barry closes his own. And Felicity’s eagerness to get Barry to see Oliver the way she does. Barry just wants a moment alone, to regroup his thoughts and really evaluate how _he_ thinks about Oliver. He can’t do that if he’s being influenced by Felicity’s (well-meaning, but unhelpful nonetheless) eager smiles when she talks about someone who had just been about to kill for Barry.

     For Barry. Was that right? _Was Oliver going to kill that man — for me? Would have, if I hadn’t said no?_ It sickens Barry to think that, but at the same time it means Oliver’s not completely irrational. Right? He had stopped, perhaps last minute, but he had stopped…the Vigilante did save Barry, after all, and Barry still hasn’t thanked Oliver for that.

     But Barry’s severely underestimated his ability to deal with this situation. He had signed onto Oliver’s team thinking he could live this dual life…but Barry isn’t sure he can anymore.

     When Barry finally stumbles into his apartment, pre-dawn light rising into the sky, he’s not sure of anything anymore.

     He knows he needs help, but Barry doesn’t know who to talk to, for this. The Vigilante is a secret, so he can’t ask Thea. And he’s just left behind him the only other person who Barry knows also holds the Vigilante’s secret.

     Starling City suddenly feels empty and cold, the way it had when Barry first moved into his apartment.

     Barry’s never felt more alone in his life.

     It’s this thought that makes him pick up his phone for the first time in months, and call the name he’s been avoiding for more than half a year.

     Joe picks up in less than two rings.

     Their argument vanishes as soon as Joe says, “Hello…Barry? Is everything all right?” Barry sinks to the floor at the sound of Joe’s voice. It’s as if Joe’s in the next room, and they’re still good.

     It’s some ungodly hour in the morning, Barry hasn’t spoken to him in over ten months, but Joe’s picked up immediately. They’ve feuded and Barry’s left and the first things out of Joe’s mouth aren’t accusations, but worry for him. Barry’s eyes fill with tears as he realizes —

     What is Barry doing, really? Why is he here, in this foreign city, and not there?

     What did he run from? What did he run _to?_ Barry’s chest heaves up and down as he breaks down, clamping one hand over his mouth so Joe can’t hear.

     “Barry?” Joe’s voice goes from questioning to urgent as Barry stays silent on his end. “Barry, are you okay?”

     Finally, Barry speaks. “No,” he admits simply, and he can’t stop the ragged sob that follows that.

     “Oh, Barry…” Joe sounds pained, and Barry hates that it’s his fault. “Please come home.”

     And Joe’s never really asked that of Barry before, even though he insinuated Barry shouldn’t leave. Because Joe was giving Barry space, thinking Barry knew what was best for him. But Barry doesn’t know that anymore, so Joe is taking up the slack and looking out for him instead.

     Barry breaks down over the phone, not even bothering to hide his distress anymore. “Joe, I — I can’t,” he says, even though he wants to with every bone in his body.

     But he can’t keep running from one city to another every time things get tough. He has to figure this one out, but he needs to hear Joe’s voice first. Needs to know he’s not completely alone, even if Joe’s 600 miles away.

     “Iris misses you,” Joe says, knowing it will help make Barry cave. “I miss you,” he adds.

     “I can’t,” Barry repeats, softly. “But I — I miss you guys, too.” He knows he’ll have to call Iris later too, owes her that much especially if he’s calling Joe. But for now, he simply sits on his cold apartment floor, listening to Joe speak.

     “Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asks, and Barry’s not sure if he means whatever’s happening to Barry now, or what made Barry leave in the first place.

     Either topic isn’t something Barry can talk about now.

     “I just — wanted to say hello,” Barry says, “And that…I’m sorry,” he adds in a broken voice. He knows Joe is just looking out for him, and even though Joe doesn’t believe Barry he’s still helped keep Barry safe all these years. Barry can’t keep making Joe feel guilty that one of the things he did to keep Barry safe was not believe in the man in yellow.

     It’s not the end of their argument, not for a long shot, but it’s a truce. For now.

     “You don’t have to be sorry, Barry, just be safe,” Joe tells him. He sounds much more awake now, like he’s gotten out of bed to talk.

 _Just be safe._ “I’m sorry,” Barry repeats, “it’s late, you should be sleeping. You have work.”

     “That I do, but it’s fine, Barry,” Joe reassures him, “I would have had to get up soon anyway. Why are you awake?”

     It’s another attempt to get Barry speaking, but Barry can’t tell him. He throws Joe a bone anyway, something innocuous that’s still the truth: “I’m a bartender now.” It sounds crazy, and stupid, and for a moment Barry’s embarrassed that Joe knows. After all, Barry went from helping solve crimes to making margaritas.

     But after a moment of shocked silence, Joe laughs, and not unkindly. “Oh Barry…I can’t believe it. You’re barely old enough to drink.”

     “I’m twenty-four!” Barry protests. He’s stopped crying now though, so it’s worth the jibe.

     Barry knows Joe has so many questions, and one day Joe will make it his mission to get his answers. But for now Joe simply says, “Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” Like Barry’s just at college again, not 600 miles away with an entirely new profession.

     “Maybe. Would you — could I?” Barry croaks out feebly, sounding like a small child again. He certainly feels that way.

     “Of _course,_ Barry, of course,” Joe says, and finally a weight lifts off of Barry’s shoulders. He feels like he might start crying again. Barry’s missed his family more than he let himself realize.

     Suddenly, a loud banging comes from his front door. Barry sits up with a jolt, accidentally hitting his head on his counter.

     “Ouch!… _crap.”_ Barry knows there’s only one person who could possibly be at his door at this hour. “Oh, crap,” he says again, voice lower and hushed this time.

     “Barry? Is that someone knocking?” Joe asks. Barry jolts again, having almost forgot he was on the phone. _Oh, crap, crap, crap._

     “Uh, sorry Joe, I gotta go,” Barry rambles, scrambling over to the door. The person on the other end is impatient, knocking even more insistently now.

     “ _What?_ Barry, it’s four in the morning, who could _possibly_ be visiting you right now?” Joe asks, and his voice is laced with that familiar police-man edge now. Barry cringes, knowing things have just complicated tenfold. He needs to disconnect, _now._

     “Gotta go! Sorry, will call again about Thanksgiving! Or maybe I’ll call Iris, yeah, I’ll do that and she’ll tell you —“ The knocking sounds again, almost angry now.

     “Coming!” Barry yells. “Bye, Joe!”

     “Barry, wai — ” Barry hangs up, tossing his phone onto the counter and striding over to the door.

     He takes a deep breath, swipes a hand over his eyes to dry them, and counts to three. Then he swings open his door.

     Standing on his porch is a wholly unfamiliar figure. He’s tall, dark-skinned, and muscular, with an impassive look on his face. “About time, kid,” the stranger spits out. 

     “Who are — ” Then Barry catches a glimpse of who the stranger is carrying, and he stops. His heart lurches. Leaning heavily against the unfamiliar man’s side, head bowed low and blood dripping from his mouth is…

     “Oh god, Oliver,” Barry breaths out.

     “He’s been shot,” the stranger says, voice strained, and finally an expression takes over the stranger’s face. It’s one of pure fear.

* * *

     The man’s name is Diggle. He acts as Oliver’s bodyguard, but really he’s the Vigilante’s right-hand man.

     He’s the third person on the team. Barry has finally met all the members, but this is definitely not the way he would have liked to be introduced to Diggle.

     The broad-shouldered man stands hovering over Barry’s shoulder as Barry works. Barry winces as the man leans forward. He can’t concentrate when he’s being watched. 

     Barry’s always worked alone, before.

     “Would you mind — stepping back a bit?” Barry asks. “You’re blocking the light,” he explains. Diggle moves back immediately, face pinched in consternation.

     Oliver’s splayed out on his back on the usual couch, Barry kneeling on the ground next to it. Barry’s hands are already coated with a copious amount of Oliver’s blood. As Barry threads the needle through Oliver’s bullet wound, the man he’s operating on doesn’t even move a muscle in response.

     He’s been out cold throughout the entire procedure. Barry had pulled the bullet out, Diggle standing nearby with a well-angled flashlight. Throughout it all, Barry felt like he had floated out of his body and was just watching himself work.

     Barry couldn’t think about what he was doing, or he’d freak out. Seeing Oliver on the brink of death gets harder each time Oliver arrives, a fact Barry tries not to dwell on.

     Oliver’s chest tattoo jumps out at Barry, vivid and dark against his too pale skin. Barry swallows as he ties off the stitches, and drops the needle in the bowl beside him. It rattles against the discarded bullet, a hollow, tinging sound as somber as a steel drum.

     “There. That’s it,” Barry says to a hyper-vigilant Diggle, who closes in on the couch immediately.

     Oliver had lost too much blood. Diggle had called Felicity earlier, asked for supplies from _Verdant._ They managed to get an IV into Oliver’s arm, and got a blood transfusion going.

     Felicity was passed out in Barry’s bed, the door to his room open so she could quickly be woken when Oliver came to.

     Barry’s very aware that if it weren’t for Diggle’s help, Oliver wouldn’t be here. If it weren’t for Felicity coming in time with the blood transfusion, Oliver probably wouldn’t have made it.

     All the events from the night come crashing down on Barry and he closes his eyes briefly. Thinks about Joe’s soothing voice, imagines him getting up and putting his uniform on, ready to start the day. Just another day, like any other.

     A hand clamps down on his shoulder, firm but gentle. Barry jumps.

     “You did good, kid,” Diggle says, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Really pulled through for us today. I heard about what happened — you should really get some rest now.”

     Barry nods, but his bed isn’t vacant, there’s an IT girl snoozing on his pillow. And his longest couch houses an unconscious Vigilante.

     He has a full house. Somehow, Barry’s apartment has turned into a haven for people he barely knows.

     So Barry slumps in the only other sofa, pulls out a cigarette, and places it between his teeth. Doesn’t light it, because it seems rude to expose Oliver to second-hand smoke after he’s just stitched the guy up. Just holds it in his lips, like a bookmark for time between stopping the Vigilante from killing someone and saving the Vigilante’s life.

     Diggle watches him carefully from his perch next to Oliver’s feet.

     “You should rest, too,” Barry croaks out, the first words he’s said ever since Oliver was stabilized. “You look like you’ve been through a nightmare.” It’s true. Diggle’s eyes are shadowed with fatigue, the after-effects of worry.

     Diggle smiles suddenly. “Not as much as you’ve been through, or so I’ve heard.” He looks grateful for Barry’s company, as if the man’s probably never had anyone to confide in before. Maybe Felicity isn’t enough for Diggle. Maybe Diggle needs to be in a room with someone who has his own doubts about what they’re doing. Makes things more real.

     Barry wants to ask Diggle how he learned the man he was hired to protect was actually the Vigilante. The city’s protector. He wants to know if Diggle’s keeping track of how many men Oliver’s killed. If anyone is. If Oliver is, himself.

     This time, Barry thinks, he is ready to ask questions. Whether or not he had wanted to be involved in another secret, the truth is Barry’s already in far too deep.

     But a wave of exhaustion presses down on Barry’s eyelids, and soon he’s been swept into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap: Our sleeping beauty wakes.


	8. When He Shrugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there will be about 14 chapters in total for this fic, including the epilogue! Just to give you guys a head up :) As I mentioned before, Barry will not be becoming the Flash in this fic, although it is insinuated he will be sometime in the future. In essence, Starling City is a detour for Barry before he can become who he needs to become.
> 
> Oliver's not himself when he wakes.

     For a city so big, news sure got around fast in Starling City. 

     Barry wakes to ten calls, three voicemails (all with increasing urgency), and a bunch of texts, all from Thea and the others at _Verdant._ Apparently news of his attack had spread, even though Barry wasn’t sure how. He didn’t think anyone at the hospital knew the staff at _Verdant,_ but with his luck they were all probably in the same book club. 

     The worst, though, are the calls from Iris. He listed her as his emergency contact, and apparently the hospital had called her — at six in the morning, as if things didn’t look bad enough — to remind her Barry needed to take his pain medications every six hours.

     That isn’t really the greatest way to let Iris know how Barry’s doing in Starling City.

     Barry doesn’t know how to deal with all this. He wakes to a severely dry mouth, a ringing headache, and the vibrations of his phone shaking the ratty sofa he’s slept on until sunlight. This is hard enough to handle. How is he supposed to assuage all these people he can’t tell the truth to anyway? He’s never been the best at social situations even in the most normal of times.

 _And this certainly is not the most normal of times._ Barry stares at his phone like Siri has all the answers for him.

     Someone’s shadow drifts across the living room floor, making Barry jump and nearly drop the phone in his hand. Felicity’s sheepish form comes into the light, her blonde hair cascading in unruly, sleep-mussed waves down her back.

     “Sorry Barry, sorry to wake you — just trying to get some coffee!” Felicity squeaks out apologetically, waving a cracked mug, the only real porcelain in Barry’s cupboard.

     “No, it’s fine, I was already awake,” Barry reassures her, getting up to fetch the instant coffee. Before he goes to the kitchen, he flicks his eyes toward Oliver’s prone form.

     Oliver hasn’t stirred all night. Barry knows this for a fact, because Barry woke intermittently between calls (ignored) and watching Diggle check up on Felicity (sleeping), Oliver (out like a light), and Barry (ignoring people and sleeping). Throughout all the interruptions in Barry’s sleep he hadn’t once seen Oliver move a single muscle.

     As Barry rummages around the cupboard, the phone in his back pocket vibrates again adamantly. Barry sighs loudly.

     “Trouble?” Felicity asks, one simple word, an invitation to converse. Barry’s walls don’t come up as quickly around Felicity as they do around others, but her curious tone makes them slowly slide up.

     Until Barry suddenly has a thought. Felicity deals with technology everyday. Sure, she can be just as awkward as Barry at times, but she must have a bit more tact when online than him. Barry whips around to face her, ignoring the throbbing in his skull.

     “Felicity — what do you usually tell people when they ask where you’ve been? Where you disappear to during your lunch break, or whatever happens when Oliver suddenly calls?”

     Felicity looks taken aback at Barry’s urgent tone. She shifts her weight on each foot, biting her bottom lip nervously. “Why do you ask, Barry? What’s going on?”

     “It’s just…a couple of my co-workers heard about the attack, and Iris, my sis — ” Barry stops, realizing Felicity probably already knows who she is, “— um, she’s…worried.” That was an adjective greatly understating Iris’s nearly frantic voicemails. His stomach churns with guilt at avoiding Iris, and his skin prickles with the unfamiliarity of keeping such a large part of his life from her.

_But what is he supposed to say?_

     Felicity’s starting to look like she understands all too well what Barry’s going through. Her features, already smoothed from sleep, soften. Her blue-grey eyes scan him with such piercing understanding that Barry feels vulnerable for a moment, hesitant and fragile.

     It’s not a bad feeling. But it’s almost too much.

     “Barry…sometimes, when you take up a new cause, you lose old ones.” Felicity’s voice is soft, like an unfurling petal, her words dropping like autumn leaves into the still, crisp morning air. “People who used to know you can’t, anymore, and that’s a sacrifice we’ve all had to make — that we all understand the pain of.” Barry knows that by _we_ Felicity means Diggle and her. “I wish I could tell you they’ll understand, that you can tell them everything, but I can’t.”

     Barry knows what she’s trying to say, knows it’s what he’s been thinking all along. _Iris can never know. Joe will never know. I’ll have to lie to Thea, Oliver’s own sister. The Vigilante saved me from an attack, but I’ll never be able to tell anyone that I know why. Or that I’m afraid of that, of what I’ve found out._

_Of, maybe, who I’m becoming._

     “Then tell me what to say, Felicity,” Barry says, not caring he’s nearly begging now, “please, I can’t do this.” _Not alone._

     “Okay, Barry, it’s going to be okay,” Felicity soothes him, stepping forward to take the coffee packets out of his hands before reaching up and hugging him across the shoulders. She’s warm, and smells like a clean room somewhere that hasn’t seen what Barry’s seen. Barry hugs her back, hesitantly at first, then wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair.

     She reminds him of Iris, and while that hurts, it also helps.

     “If you want, I’ll compose a generic, yet reassuring text to them,” Felicity offers when she finally steps away. She doesn’t look embarrassed at all at their sudden display of emotion, which Barry appreciates more deeply than he could even describe. He’s missed closeness with people.

     “Yeah, okay…thank you, Felicity,” Barry says, genuine warmth in his voice. He knows Iris deserves better than a generic text that’s not really from Barry at all. But he can’t give Iris what she deserves. That’s the very problem.

     They make coffee, the boiling liquid in the kettle a soothing backdrop against Barry’s troubled thoughts. Felicity leans back against the counter as she peers at Barry’s phone, slight creases pinching her forehead while she ponders.

     Diggle’s passed out on a pile of Barry’s clothes at the foot of the sofa. Scully and Mulder have draped themselves across his toes sometime during the night, like fluffy slippers.

     Barry’s almost smiling as he watches Diggle’s foot twitch against Scully’s nose — and that’s when the screaming starts. 

* * *

Oliver is shifting against the couch cushions, battling them as if they are enemies. His hands claw in the air, boxing imaginary warriors — and a long, drawn-out scream is ringing from his throat. 

     “Help me hold him down! Or he’ll tear out his stitches!” Diggle yells at Barry and Felicity, who stand frozen at the edge of the living room. Diggle’s bleeding already from a cut on his cheek, residue from one of Oliver’s stray punches. Diggle’s stepped away, but he looks like he’s going to dive back in and pin Oliver’s arms down again.

     The Vigilante in question has his eyes wide open, but it’s clear he’s not truly awake. Sweat courses down the sides of his face, mingling with tears. He looks angry, and fierce, and so, so afraid.

     Felicity drops her mug with a loud clatter, suddenly leaping into motion. She crosses the living room to try and sit on Oliver’s legs while Diggle makes to grab Oliver’s wrists.

     He misses. Oliver half-rises from the couch, bucking Felicity off in one swift motion.

     “Barry! What are you doing?! _Help us!”_ Diggle exclaims, helping Felicity up from where she’s been unceremoniously dumped onto the carpet.

     Oliver’s wide, unseeing blue eyes swivel over to Barry and that’s when Barry finally snaps out of his shock.

     Barry strides past Diggle and Felicity, ignoring Diggle’s gaping look as Barry perches on the edge of the couch. “Oliver! WAKE UP!” Barry shouts into Oliver’s ear.

     No response. Oliver may as well be bent on all fours, a wild animal unpredictable in its fear. Whatever Oliver’s seeing must be absolutely awful, to consume him in this way…to make him breathe fast, eyes flicking crazily towards the ceiling.

     Barry knows what it feels like to be trapped in your own mind, unable to wake from something that is horrible. Something that might be a nightmare, but also might just be a replay of the _truth._

     Barry would give anything to be woken from the nightmares, before his mother can be killed in front of his eyes again and _again._ God only knows what it is Oliver’s seeing.

     So Barry leans forward, straightens his palm, and slaps it across Oliver’s face.

     Diggle and Felicity both gasp simultaneously, loud intakes of air. The harsh _smack_ echoes in the apartment. But Barry’s aware that they can hear this because _Oliver’s stopped screaming._

     Barry watches as Oliver’s eyes focus slowly, slowly, onto Barry’s face. They’re sitting inches apart, and Barry can hear it when Oliver’s breathing calms and quiets.

     “…Barry?” Oliver croaks out, shoulders sagging.

     Barry relaxes his hand, setting it in a loose curl on his lap. He nods.

     “Barry,” Oliver repeats, this time not a question but a realization. Barry gives Oliver time to process where he is, who he’s with, and what’s just happened. Slowly Oliver eases back down onto the couch.

     “God, kid, you’re insane,” Diggle murmurs from where he’s crept up next to Barry. The man’s obviously taken aback, but his shocked tone is infused with gratitude. Oliver’s finally awake.

     Oliver’s eyes pan over to Diggle, who’s clutching his bleeding cheek. “Did — did I do that to you?” Oliver sounds horrified.

     “It was an accident, and I’m fine,” Diggle reassures him, looking as if he wants to pat Oliver on the shoulder but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. That alone makes Oliver’s anxious expression magnify tenfold.

     “What about…” Oliver looks to Felicity, who holds up her hands to show him she’s alright, and then finally to Barry. Oliver’s eyes go wide at Barry’s appearance, and Barry wonders how much of last night’s bruises are still visible on his skin. But Oliver eventually remembers it isn’t _him_ who has hurt Barry…then his eyes go wide again when Oliver remembers who it was…and what Oliver had done.

     There’s a sudden, thick tension in the air. Barry shivers.

     “I’ll go get you some coffee, eh, Oliver?” Diggle says abruptly, sensing the shift in the room. He pulls Felicity away with him as he goes. “Show me where the mugs are,” he pretends is his real motivation, even though everyone in the room can see how small Barry’s place is — there’s only one cupboard where the mugs can be, for crying aloud.

     Barry waits until they’ve pushed themselves into the farthest corner of the kitchen before swiveling back to face Oliver. The other man looks absolutely exhausted. There’s a raggedness in the edges of his eyes that Barry’s never noticed before, a weighted dip in his brow and a brokenness in Oliver’s frame where his shoulders should be set higher.

     Even though Barry had told himself he finally wanted answers, even after his trepidation from seeing Oliver nearly kill that man…right now he can’t bring himself to ask Oliver to explain himself for Barry.

     Once again, the Oliver sitting here injured on the couch is not the Vigilante Barry had seen last night. Except, the two are starting to blur into the same man, and Barry’s starting to realize how often Oliver uses fury and wildness as a mask for what’s really someone so desperately unsure and afraid.

     And here Barry had thought _he_ was the one who should be scared. Funny, how so much could change in the span of such little time.

     Oliver’s watching Barry warily, waiting for him to speak. So Barry does.

     “One time, a week before Christmas, Iris and I found out Joe still thought we believed Santa was real.”

     Oliver blinks at him, startled at the random revelation. Since he’s read Barry’s “file,” or whatever Felicity made for Barry’s information, Barry knows it’s not the names that are confusing the man.

     So Barry continues, “Some old friend of Joe’s had come to visit us, and he hadn’t heard about Joe’s split with his wife. Joe had to explain everything to him. Joe kept a polite smile on his face throughout dinner. But after the friend left Joe sat on the stairs for hours, just watching the door as if she’d somehow walk through it. Even after all these years.”

     Oliver relaxes against the couch, eyes lidded as he watches Barry speak.

     “We were younger then, but not that young. I guess Joe assumed we believed in Santa because he’d never told us otherwise. Or maybe he thought we were still young enough to believe in Santa. Maybe he wanted us to be. I don’t know…but Iris overheard him talking about it on the phone. She ran to me, laughing, and we were ready to tell him the truth.”

     Barry folds himself down onto the floor, resting his chin on his knees. He remembers the way Iris’ eyes lit up in glee, and the excitement they’d felt of knowing something an adult doesn’t know. “But after we saw Joe so sad, we realized if he knew we didn’t believe in Santa…that we were growing up, with or without a mother…we suddenly knew he’d be more sad. If he found out, he’d be more sad.”

     Barry turns to Oliver, pleased to see Oliver’s got his eyes closed now. The man’s breathing has smoothed out, but he’s not yet asleep.

     “I don’t think we did him a disservice by pretending, just for a little longer. We made him happy. That’s what matters to us. But…I’m glad he didn’t do the same to me. Every time I tell him about the man in yellow…” Barry’s voice catches in his throat, and he’s looking away now but he can tell Oliver’s got his eyes open again.

     “Every time I tell him, Joe doesn’t pretend he believes me. Because for Joe, greater than someone’s happiness…is someone’s safety…for Joe. To him, me believing my father was innocent meant danger. It meant…not knowing what was real…and that’s dangerous,” Barry repeats softly. He remembers calling Joe — _could it really have been only hours ago? —_ and the relief it was to talk again to the man he views as his second father.

     It isn’t until now that Barry realizes, despite his hope for Joe to believe his story, that if Joe _doesn’t —_ then this honesty is better. This sincere honesty, this protection and love Joe gives him, is better than a fake nod of agreement. It means Joe respects Barry enough to tell him the truth.

     Why couldn’t Barry have seen that before? Barry buries his head in his knees, forgetting he’s supposed to be telling a simple little story to comfort Oliver right now.

     “This Joe, he must care about you a lot.” Barry jumps at the sound of Oliver’s quiet voice. He looks up, and Oliver’s eyes meet his.

     “I’ve never met Joe. But he sounds like a good guy,” Oliver nods to himself, looking contemplative. “Not like me,” he adds lowly, so quiet Barry’s not sure Oliver knows he’s saying it aloud.

     “Are you sure about that?” Barry asks him. Oliver starts, eyes flicking away from him. Oliver’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, the way people do before they speak, but Oliver doesn’t say anything for a good long while.

     Finally, “I would have killed him.” Oliver sounds confident in that. It’s the sure truth. Barry knows who the ‘him’ it is that Oliver’s talking about. Still remembers the way the attacker had scuttled back from Oliver, the arrow sticking out of the man’s side suddenly turning him into a lamb in wolf’s clothing.

     “You would have,” Barry acquiesces.

     Oliver turns to him. “And so, doesn’t that make me…not a good man?” He sounds so open and confused that for a moment Barry has to pause and take a deep breath.

     “I don’t know,” Barry says honestly, watching the shutters fall down on Oliver’s face. “I don’t know much about all this, and someday I think I would like to find out more from you. But for now, what I do know is that you probably saved my life last night. And I — I didn’t thank you for that. So thank you,” he says, watching as the shutters rise back up, if only slightly.

     “You’re…thanking me.” Oliver sounds even more confused. “I thought you hated me.”

     “I don’t _hate_ you,” Barry says quickly, “why would you think that?”

     “Because — because like Joe, you’re also a good person, Barry…and I — I nearly killed someone, I _would have_ killed someone, and you _saw_ …and when good people _see,_ they don’t…” Oliver stammers, and stumbles, and doesn’t know how to confess. Barry reaches up from the floor to lay two fingers in the crook of Oliver’s knee. Oliver quiets immediately.

     “I am not so naive as to think that the lines between good and bad are never blurred,” Barry tells him. “Or that a person can’t be both, at times, and maybe one more so than the other.”

     Oliver stares at him. “How does a person know which one…which one they are more of?”

     “Who knows,” Barry shrugs. Oliver looks frustrated. “It’s not for me to say,” Barry continues, “but as the Vigilante,” Oliver stiffens at the name, “as the Vigilante you’re trying to do something for Starling City. And that’s not on you. But you take up the responsibility anyway… _that_ makes you good.”

     “And as Oliver Queen, you look after your family and team and do small, crazy things like tell me my lipstick doesn’t make me look stupid.” Oliver actually cracks a small smile at that. “So the way I see it,” Barry concludes slowly, thinking hard, “the way I see it, as the Vigilante or as Oliver Queen, either way…you’re more of a good person.”

     Oliver looks like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. Is this how Atlas felt, when he shrugged?

     To see the absolute earnestness in Oliver’s eyes as he watches Barry speak almost scares Barry. It’s such a raw emotion. Oliver’s been through so much, and for a moment Barry wonders if he was right to even say anything at all to the other man. What does Barry know, after all? He still has so many questions. But Barry _feels_ the truth behinds his words, _knows_ somehow that Oliver…despite everything…can’t be a bad man.

     The tension in the room eases into a thin, soft quiet that expands until it fills Barry’s very insides. His limbs feel warm and liquified, a pleasant, calming sensation, and the throbbing in Barry’s head dies down to a slow tingling.

     “What ever happened to the man in yellow?” Oliver asks suddenly, with his eyes closed again. Barry glances up at Oliver, not understanding.

     “What do you mean?” He questions tentatively, unsure what Oliver’s getting at.

     “Felicity couldn’t find the outcome. Are they still looking for him? The police, I mean. For the man in yellow?” Oliver sounds calm now, on the edge of sleep. His voice is fuzzy and soft, and the fact that he’s moved on from the topic of good and bad must mean he was satisfied with Barry’s answer.

     But Barry stares up at Oliver. Barry’s suddenly wide awake. “What do you mean?” He repeats, not daring to believe how Oliver could be asking this question. Doesn’t Oliver think that _there_ _is no_ man in yellow?

     “Barry…I know you’re not a file. If you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine. I’m just,” Oliver cracks a wide yawn, moving his head down to nestle into a couch cushion. “Just wondering,” he says, softer now.

     “The police said there was no man in yellow,” Barry says.

     “But there was, wasn’t there?” Oliver asks aloud. “You saw him.”

     Barry’s suddenly aware he still has his hand on Oliver’s knee. The contact is warm, melding, like he and Oliver are pieces of metal fused together in the presence of a hot fire. “You believe me,” Barry finally understands.

     Oliver doesn’t say anything, and when Barry looks up he sees the man’s fallen asleep.

     That speaks more volumes than a _yes_ could, because it means Oliver isn’t actively trying to pretend to believe Barry in order to get Barry on his side. Oliver is genuinely just wondering while he dances on the edge of sleep, sleep which makes him outspoken and curious.

     Barry feels something unfurl in his stomach. A warmth seeping into his very bones, settling in them, a reminder: _someone believes me._ A burden, that had lightened when Thea had accepted him, growing even more light: _he believes me._

     Hope — that is what this feeling is. Until now, Barry hadn’t even realized it was one of the things he had left behind in Central City.

     For the second time that night, softly so Oliver won’t wake, Barry cries.


	9. About To Go Back For The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chap a day early 'cause the holidays are approaching and I'm trying to get on Santa's nice list. 
> 
> This is the last one before the Thanksgiving chapter. Something progresses for Barry.

     In a way Barry would have thought impossible, things go back to normal after that night. 

     Perhaps not completely normal. Definitely not the _old_ normal. No, it’s actually quite unusual…but it’s _routine._

     Thea and the others at _Verdant_ fuss over him more than usual, and someone always walks with him back home. Felicity texts him pictures of strays near her apartment, only stopping when Diggle points out Barry will probably take them home if she doesn’t. The man complains he’s already dented his paycheck on Scully and Mulder’s stuffed toys (Barry wisely doesn’t mention  how nobody asked Diggle to do so and maybe Diggle is starting to get attached).

     Diggle himself wears a wedding ring but doesn’t speak about it. He shows up to Barry’s at odd hours, sometimes with Oliver, sometimes just with news.

     News that Barry now accepts. Local gangs are at it again. A new crime syndicate has been birthed in the heart of Starling City (which Barry’s now realizing acts as a twisted kind of villain-spawn-center).

     Barry learns about Oliver’s list. He sits with Oliver sometimes when the man wakes on the couch screaming. Snippets of names and memories, emotions and desires, spill out of the man like ink into the night, darkening its shade.

     Other times, Oliver is quiet, and they simply watch television side by side until morning comes.

     Sometimes, on the louder nights, Barry catches Oliver looking sideways at him like Oliver’s not sure why Barry’s still there. Barry doesn’t know if Oliver understands how much it means to Barry that Oliver had believed him about the man in yellow. Now it’s two Queens that have helped Barry.

     It’s kind of ridiculous how alike Oliver and Thea are. Because Barry can see that expression in Oliver’s eyes sometimes, the same one Thea wears when she sees a persistent, haughty guy trying to pull Barry away from behind the bar _._ The narrowing of the eyes, and slight pinching of the nose bone happens in Oliver when Barry accidentally spikes his finger on a needle while stitching the man up. Or when Mulder, having one of his grumpy days, extends his claw in Barry’s direction.

     When Barry takes the time to really think about it, he realizes it’s the also the look the Vigilante had in his eyes on that horrific night. Dulled down a little, maybe, but it’s the same. It makes Barry sure he said it correctly when he told Oliver he could be a good man.

     But in those moments Barry pulls aside for himself — maybe when idly wiping down the bar or pouring a mixed drink — he realizes he spends more time cataloguing Oliver’s expressions than thinking about the man in yellow. Or about having left Joe and Iris.

     And then the guilt grabs Barry back in, winning the tug-and-war he’s had all these months out of Central City. Barry doesn’t deserve distraction, and he’s not sure what it means that he’s distracted by Oliver’s expressions anyway.

     Probably nothing good.

     But Barry smokes less, in this new, strange routine he has with Oliver’s team. (So maybe a little good.)

      Still, it’s definitely strange when Barry suddenly finds himself spending his Saturday morning in his apartment watching _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ while sandwiched on the couch between Diggle and Oliver. Felicity’s sitting cross-legged on the floor at their feet, Scully and Mulder nestled on either side of her. (Barry once pointed out how _Felicity_ is pretty much human for _cat,_ or _feline,_ and she actually laughed. He’s not used to people appreciating his jokes.)

     Barry had just got back from his shift at the bar to find Diggle, Felicity, and Oliver (uninjured this time, thankfully) camped out on his doorstep. Barry would have put on some pathetic excuse so he could go to bed but Diggle nearly pressed his ear to the door to hear Mulder meowing — and Felicity had brought a new welcome mat with her, so.

     Besides, they must all be just as tired as Barry, considering what they do during the nights, but they opted to spend their free weekend morning with him. Barry would be lying if he said he wasn’t grateful for their company. So he unlocked the door and let Diggle spoil Scully with another stuffed mouse (purple this time).

     As the movie starts, Diggle pulls out a crinkly packet from inside his leather jacket. He gives Barry a conspiratorial look. “Look what I brought,” he says in a hushed voice.

     Barry gives him a look right back. “…Microwaveable popcorn?” The way Diggle’s describing it, he could have been about to offer Barry something highly illegal.

     “Not just any popcorn,” Diggle says, still hushed as if he’s about to offer Barry _some premium weed, man,_ “It’s _extra butter.”_ The man’s practically salivating at this point.

     Felicity gives a loud snort from in front. “Barry doesn’t even own a microwave, Diggle.”

     Diggle looks absolutely baffled. “What?! _What?!_ Barry. No offense man, but you’re a horrible cook. Drinks, alright. Food, no. So how is it that you don’t have a microwave for your frozen instants?”

     Barry folds his arms at him. “I’ll have you know, I think cooking is much healthier and a microwave would give me too much temptation.”

     “Says the man who smokes cigarettes,” Diggle rolls his eyes. “You sound just like Oliver. He’s also a health nut…I haven’t had popcorn in months because of him…well, that and the fact he hasn’t taken the mask off long enough to watch a movie, but you get the point.”

     Diggle huffs loudly after finishing his tirade, sinking back into the cushions. Oliver, who’s been quiet for this entire exchange, makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. Barry thinks it may have been an attempted laugh.

     Yep, this is _definitely_ a strange night.

     Barry gets up, sliding his arm out from under Oliver’s shoulder to do so — _and when had they drifted so close to each other? —_ and crosses over to the kitchen. “Alright, Dig, I got granola bars and yogurt. Take your pic.”

     “That’s not even real food, man,” Diggle complains. “…What flavor granola bars?”

     “Blueberry, apple cinnamon, aaaand…” Barry stands on his tiptoes to reach the box on the highest shelf, feeling a cold breeze hit his bare back as his shirt rides up slightly. “…peanut butter.”

     “Okay. Guess I’ll have blueberry, kid.” Diggle catches two blueberry granola bars Barry tosses at him.

     “What about you, Felicity, Oliver?” Barry questions, turning to look at them.

     “Hmm?” Felicity turns her head from the screen slightly. “No, Barry, I don’t want — just get back here, you’re missing the good parts!” Felicity whines, stroking a cuddly Mulder.

     "Oliver?” Barry repeats, and Oliver must hear him because he’s staring at Barry, but he’s not saying a word.

     “Oh — sure,” Oliver says distractedly. “Apple cinnamon.”

     Diggle’s eyes go wide as Oliver catches the granola bars in one swift motion. “Um, Ollie — you’re actually going to eat non-fresh food?” Diggle looks incredulous.

     “Hush up, Dig,” Oliver retorts, gaze finally sliding back to the TV set, while Barry stands and tries to process how he feels hearing Diggle call the Vigilante _Ollie._

     Of course, like with all movie mornings — if that’s what is actually happening here, _how is that what is actually happening here? —_ an argument about the movie choice begins.

     “You guys said you never watched it before! It’s a classic, so here we are,” Felicity frowns up at Diggle and Oliver. Since Barry is in the middle of the couch, and she’s on the middle of the floor, her back is parallel to his legs. Sometime during the day she’s relaxed her sitting position, back now on Barry’s feet.

     Her presence isn’t that heavy at all, and she’s warm. Barry feels like he’s just adopted a third cat.

     “But it’s a chick-flick,” Diggle remarks, crunching on his second granola bar. On screen, Tiffany argues with her love interest in the back of a cab. Barry’s kind of zoned out half-way through the film, so he’s not really sure why Tiffany and her lover are yelling at each other. He has had a long shift at _Verdant,_ since most of the staff were starting to leave town for Thanksgiving.

     Barry is supposed to make his decision about possibly going back for the holidays by tonight. But he still isn’t anymore sure about that choice than he was when he had first called Joe.

     Consuming stale granola bars and watching a girl steal masks seems like a suitable alternative.

     “It’s a _classic,”_ Felicity shoots back at Diggle.

     “It’s definitely a chick-flick,” Oliver agrees with Diggle, which makes her wrinkle her nose at him. Scully leaps out of her lap to spring onto the couch and purrs into the crook of Oliver’s elbow. Felicity gives Scully a betrayed look. Felicity inclines her head slightly onto Barry’s lap, and Oliver mirrors her expression.

 _Relax,_ Ollie, _she just has a difference of opinion,_ Barry thinks lazily, his eyelids drooping. He thinks Diggle might be shooting Oliver a look over Barry’s head, but he can’t be sure.

     “Look, we can tell it’s a chick-flick because they’re arguing about the concept of love,” Diggle explains sagely. “That shit always happens in chick-flicks,” he points out.

     “ _Shhh,_ she’s about to agree with him about it,” Felicity informs them. “She’s about to go back for the cat and admit that it’s worth loving something, or someone, even if you might end up hurt.”

     “Don’t _spoil_ it!” Diggle yelps, gaining a smug look from Felicity.

     “I guess that _is_ interesting,” Oliver says softly beside Barry, his voice a quiet drift of air, a drop of rain before the storm breaks.

     “What do you think, Barry? Chick-flick or nah?” Barry hears Felicity ask him. He _hears,_ rather than _sees,_ and is suddenly aware his eyes are closed. Barry drags them back open, forcing himself awake.

     “Oh…ah, well, what I think is — ”

     “Gigs up kid, we caught you snoozin’,” Diggle laughs. “Long day at the club?” The older man reaches across to ruffle Barry’s hair. Barry wriggles away to the opposite direction of the man, colliding slightly into Oliver as he does so.

     “I’m not a _kid,_ I’m — ” Barry’s indignant words are punctuated by his large yawn, “— _twenty-four.”_ Even Felicity is younger than him.

     “You should get some sleep,” Oliver rustles beside him as Scully tries to burrow her head in Oliver’s sweater. “Do you want us to leave?”

     “No, no, it’s fine,” Barry insists, even though his eyes are slipping closed again. So tiredness is probably the reason why he confesses next, “I don’t like sleeping alone, anyway. I get really…bad nightmares.”

     There’s a sudden quietness following that, one Barry’s only slightly aware he’s caused.

     “We’ll stay, then,” Oliver tells him softly, and that’s the last thing Barry hears before he falls asleep.

* * *

Barry’s dreaming, but the man in yellow is nowhere in sight. Barry’s not even in his old house this time. 

     He’s in his apartment. The one in Starling City. Distantly, Barry is aware that he’s never had a dream about Starling City before.

     The apartment is empty, and he’s on the couch. There’s not a single peep uttered.

     Not a single peep.

     “Scully? Mulder?” Barry calls out in concern, because even while dreaming he loves those guys. But they don’t come to him, to curl up in his lap or ask for treats.

     Barry’s suddenly aware it’s dark out, it’s — about the time Oliver usually comes. As if on cue, there’s a knocking at the door.

     Barry opens it, but Oliver’s not dressed like the Vigilante tonight. He’s not wearing the Queen power-suit, either. Oliver’s just — Oliver.

     Plain black tee, jeans, shoes. The leather jacket’s missing, Barry realizes. But Oliver’s not finished. Oliver wrests his t-shirt up off his head, now shirt-less in Barry’s apartment. There’s not a single wound on him.

     “Oliver…what are you doing?” Barry asks, and can only watch as Oliver walks towards him purposefully.

     “What does it look like I’m doing?” Oliver asks, even in a dream not straightforward, even in a dream ever smooth. His voice is silk sheets against Barry’s ears, it’s a million thread-count, and laced with a rough edge that makes Barry shiver.

     Then Oliver steps closer, crowding Barry against the living room couch. Oliver leans in — his eyes are so blue — and his breath ghosts across Barry’s lips. Oliver’s hands are on Barry’s thighs, and Barry’s reaching up to curl his fingers in the nape of Oliver’s neck…there’s no words exchanged, just looks, and intent.

     And then Oliver’s kissing him, and _Barry is kissing him back._ He’s making out with the Vigilante on his couch.

     Barry’s not sure if this is supposed to be a nightmare or not.

     “Oh, god,” Barry breathes out, as Oliver skims his fingers across the waistband of Barry’s jeans. “Oliver, this isn’t — we shouldn’t — I don’t know, I don’t know.”

     “Well, make up your mind, Barry,” Oliver says, pulling back to stare Barry in the eyes. He’s suddenly patient, but there is a fire lit in his pupils — an absolute _inferno —_ and Barry feels the heat between them notch up even higher —

     “Barry!”

     Barry jolts awake, sweat coating his brow. The glow of his television screen hits him in the face and he squints his eyes, shielding his face.

     When he brings his hand down, he’s met with three concerned stares.

     Oh no. Oh _no._

     He’s still sitting on the couch, with Oliver’s team still tucked in all around him. With _Oliver_ still pressed in close by his side. Barry swivels around and is mortified to see Oliver’s peering at him closely.

     “I thought you didn’t get nightmares when you were alone,” the other man states. Felicity reaches up to pat Barry on the knee, and as if it’s a signal Oliver brushes a hand reassuringly up and down Barry’s arm.

 _Nightmare? What — oh, no nono._ Barry’s sweating slightly, and he’s probably been…making _sounds._ Oh god. They all thought he had been scared when in reality he had been…what?

     Turned on?

_Alright, you’re not stupid, Barry. So be honest with yourself here. You were definitely turned on. By Oliver Queen, Starling City billionaire, aka the Hood, aka the man sitting next to you right freakin’ now._

_Touching your arm._

_Repeatedly._

     “Oh _no,”_ Barry groans aloud. Had he said Oliver’s name in his sleep? He can’t tell. He probably had. Barry’s face heats up, just another embarrassing factor, and he buries his face in his hands.

     “Barry! What’s wrong?” Felicity asks, peering at him in concern.

     “Hey man, it’s okay to get nightmares. I get them about my time in Afghanistan sometimes,” Diggle reassures Barry.

     The man’s being so open and honest here, to help him, and Barry’s embarrassment increases because _this is not about that._

     “Sorry, I — I gotta — have a minute,” Barry nearly shouts, rising from the couch and fleeing to his room. He slams the door, wincing. He had been absolutely rude to them all. They probably think there is something wrong with him.

     And there is. Barry has just had a…sex dream…about _Oliver._

     Sure, Barry had always found Oliver attractive. Anyone with eyes can see that the man is incredibly good-looking, or even ears maybe, since his voice is — oh _no._ What is he _saying?_ How had Barry not realized how much Oliver affected him?

     Maybe it’s a recent thing? Because Barry had stitched up Oliver enough times in the past to have seen pretty much everything there was to see. Or did Barry just go into doctor mode when he did that, some strange professional realm where you didn’t ogle your patients?

     Not that Barry does any ogling outside of patching Oliver up. _I mean, he looked pretty good Halloween night in that suit, but that’s just an impartial observation, right?_

     When did this start? When Oliver told Barry he believed in him, or today when Oliver said he would stay? Or had it really been as far back as Halloween night? Because Barry hadn’t known Oliver that well then, had he? Barry hadn’t even seen the Vigilante in action yet.

     Barry’s heart sinks. What even is ‘this’? Is it just physical attraction? And if so, then why does Barry feel like he’s just left some part of him behind in the living room? Barry hears fierce whispering coming from the other side of the door, but he tries to block it out. He can’t go back outside right now.

     Barry thinks back to when he first saw Oliver, in the dumpster with green ink splotched across his closed eyelids.

_Surely it didn’t start then._

     Suddenly, the door to Barry’s room opens. Barry stumbles backwards when Oliver’s frame appears in the doorway.

     Oliver studies his reaction carefully. Oliver’s own face is a controlled, neutral mask, but his eyes darken slightly. After a beat, Oliver opens his mouth to speak.

     “Is everything alright, Barry?” Oliver sounds perfectly calm, but there’s a tension in the tight line of his shoulders.

     Barry tries to match Oliver’s tone when he replies, “Yes, sorry, everything’s — everything’s good.”

     “You don’t have to apologize for having a nightmare,” Oliver states calmly, but he doesn’t move further into the room. A second later Barry finds out why. “Do you want me to leave, Barry?”

     “No,” Barry says, too quickly. Oliver looks a little relieved though, so Barry supposes it’s okay.

     “It’s just that…you said my name. In your nightmare,” Oliver explains. Barry winces, _Oliver had heard that…_

     “Barry — if you’re afraid of me,” Oliver takes a deep breath. “If you are, it’s perfectly natural. I’ll — I’ll understand, so just let me know if you need me to go — ”

     “What! _No,_ I’m not afraid of you, Oliver!” _Well I am, but not for the reason you probably think._ “Stay. If you want. Seriously, I’m fine,” Barry insists, watching the tension ease from Oliver’s shoulders.

     There’s still a darkness in his eyes, though, a little trace of disbelief perhaps. Which is why Barry crosses the room and hugs him.

     He’s not thinking about his possible attraction to Oliver anymore, or even about his dream. Oliver had sounded like he still thinks he might be a bad man, and Barry’s not having it. This is how he shows Oliver proof.

     Oliver tenses up right away, but when Barry doesn’t look like he’s about to run screaming from the room anytime soon Oliver relaxes. He even reciprocates the hug, raising his arms tentatively to wrap around Barry’s waist.

     “I don’t remember what I dreamed about, but when I woke I was not afraid of you, Oliver,” Barry says, muffled into Oliver’s shoulder. It’s one part truth, one part a secret (that is not going to be told tonight).

     Oliver nods against Barry’s hair, letting out a deep breath that crests along the top of Barry’s ears.

     Barry feels a little part of him slip back into the room, ease itself back to his side, and relax.

_I’m so freakin’ screwed._

* * *

The next morning is Thanksgiving day. Barry packs up his things, mind made up. Once upon a time Barry had told himself that there would be no more running from city to city when things got difficult. But that was a version of Barry that hadn’t dreamt about Oliver Queen.

     And in the long timeline of Barry’s difficult things, the incident with Joe and Iris fell just a hairsbreadth underneath the complication of possibly falling for a billionaire slash Vigilante.

     Besides, Barry needs to see his family. He hopes Joe had meant it when he said he wanted Barry there for the holidays. And maybe Iris won’t chew him out too much about the six AM phone call. (Maybe.)

     Barry checks his watch. Fifteen minutes to the next train departing for Central City. He’ll make it if he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of creating a separate fic where each chapter contains a scene that I didn't get to fit into this story. Kind of like drabbles with scenes between Barry and Oliver, Barry & Joe & Iris, etc. Maybe even some stuff from Oliver's POV! Would you guys be interested in this idea? Let me know pls!


	10. There’s A Quiet Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messing around with the Arrow timeline again. Some events that happen in this chapter are reminiscent of s1. As for the Flash timeline, Eddie and Iris are already an item, and Eddie is already Joe’s partner — but the particle accelerator has not gone public yet. *doge face pops up* Much AU, very crack. Enjoy!

_I’m sorry for not replying to your calls and texts. I appreciate your concern, however, after the incident I simply fell asleep and did not have the time to check my messages. Please don’t worry, everything is alright. I’ll talk to you soon. — Barry_

Barry rereads the old text message, then pockets his phone and stares out the train window. Felicity’s composition in it had sounded a little stilted, a bit too formal to really be him. But it had done the job. Everyone’s responses had been a lot calmer after that, a lot more patient.

All except Iris’s. If anything, she had gotten even more agitated.

 _Figures,_ Barry thinks to himself. _She’s pretty much my sister, she’d know if I didn’t sound like myself._

It didn’t help things that Felicity had tacked on, _I’ll talk to you soon,_ which Barry never did. After that one outgoing text a while ago, Barry had let Iris’s texts slide through unanswered once again.

_God, she’s going to kill me._

Barry rubs his eyes, the reality of what he’s about to face weighing down on him. _Joe will probably help bury the body. He’s a policeman, he knows all the good hiding spots._

Barry spots his reflection in the window and squints his eyes at it. He looks as exhausted as he feels, and his hair is untrimmed and superbly messy. There’s stray cat hair dangling on his jacket sleeves.

Barry had first opened his phone with the intent to let everyone know what was happening. He’d already sent Thea a text, giving her a heads-up on her Thanksgiving staffing. But after that, Barry had stalled. 

And then, because he doesn’t possess Felicity’s online finesse, Barry now sends: _Don’t do any Vigilante-ing over Thanksgiving. Won’t be home to stitch up._ And sends it as a mass text to the entire Vigilante team.

To Joe and Iris, he simply says: _Coming home._ He’s pretty sure they don’t own enough shovels between the two of them to do any digging. And they know he’s the forensic scientist, so they’d kind of need to at least talk to him first, to ask how best to disinfect the one shovel.

Besides, to top it all off, Eddie’s probably going to be there this year. Joe and Iris wouldn’t do anything with company over.

With that sound logic in mind, Barry spends the rest of the train ride crumpled over his overnight bag, snoozing.

* * *

 Barry swallows. Looks up at the front door a few steps away. Swallows again. 

Everything’s just the way he’s left it. From the kink on the third step where Iris broke the front wheel of her bike, to the third bush from the left that’s always losing its leaves. With his hastily packed back in hand, Barry can almost imagine he never left Central City. That he’s simply standing on the front steps again, taking one last glance behind him and thinking, _am I really going to do this?_

Eddie’s car is parked on the curb, as well as Joe’s. Iris probably came with Eddie. So they’re all here. 

Barry figures if he spends any more time on the porch a neighbor’s going to call the cops on him and then Joe will be seeing him anyway. So he heaves in a deep breath and knocks. 

It’s Eddie who answers first. Barry has a second to think, _Good, we’ll ease into this,_ before Eddie’s knocked out of the way by Joe. 

“BARRY!” Joe engulfs Barry in an enormous bear hug, and something in Barry that’s always been bending ever since he left Central City cracks. Barry throws his arms around Joe, squeezing his eyes tight as Joe nearly severs a rib in his enthusiasm. 

Eddie’s standing off to the side — where he’s been unceremoniously shoved by Joe — looking awkward but pleased at the same time. 

“Welcome home, Barry,” the blonde policeman says, receiving a dirty look from Joe for his efforts.

“That’s _my_ line, partner,” Joe teases, before finally letting go of Barry. “Welcome home, son.”

“Hi Joe, Eddie,” Barry grins up at them. His grin is so wide his cheeks are straining to keep up. “How’d you know it was me?” He asks, because Eddie barely pulled the door open before Joe appeared.

“We saw you standing on the porch about a minute ago. Thought we’d give you a chance to get here first,” Joe says, and that about sums up the entire ten months Barry’s been away. Something unclenches in Barry’s chest at the words. 

But everything’s not quite right yet. “Where’s Iris?” 

As soon as Barry asks the question he sees Joe’s smile dim. Eddie’s awkward look grows bigger than the pleased look. Barry creases his forehead in a frown; _what’s going on?_

“Iris…she’s in her room,” Joe tells Barry, eyes askance. “When we told her we spotted you outside she…said she needed some time,” he explains, looking pained — for her or for Barry, Barry did not know. 

It’s ironic, because that’s what Barry’s been doing when he avoided _her._ Getting some time. But it still hurts that Iris doesn’t want to see him right away. 

_What did you expect, after the no phone calls or personal messages? You deserve this,_ Barry berates himself. _You deserve worse. She could be yelling at you right now._

Still, if Iris yelled at him, at least Barry would be able to see her face. 

“Right, ah, can I — can I come in?” Barry asks, his voice small. He still hasn’t stepped over the threshold yet. It’s like he’s a vampire, and needs to ask permission. After Iris’s reaction, Barry’s no longer confident he’s not a monster. 

“Barry, please. There’s a plate set out for you on the table,” Joe assures him, pulling Barry in by the shoulder. And Joe’s got to be a little affronted too, Barry knows, but Joe’s being a dad right now. Putting his children first. 

Eddie makes room for Barry to step through the doorway. He pats Barry on the back, as if they’re back at the station and they’ve just solved a case together. 

Barry reaches down to unlace his sneakers. He spots a charred mark on the toe from where his cigarette butt accidentally fell on his Converse and quickly places the other shoe on top of the marred one, covering the mark, before setting the pair down on the welcome mat. 

They make their way into the living room, where the couches look warm and inviting. There’s a smell of pumpkin pie in the air. Several files that Joe’s left lying around the tabletop collide their manila edges with picture frames of Barry and Iris: at camp, seaside, in front of Barry’s college dorm steps. Some discarded wrappers for peppermint patties — one of Iris’s favorite candies, Barry remembers — have fallen onto the thin, ruffled carpet. 

God, Barry’s missed this. This, this is home. 

* * *

Iris comes down for dinner at around five-thirty. At this point, Barry’s caught up on Eddie’s cases from during the time Barry had been gone, which include several anecdotes about Captain Singh’s new strict diet (courtesy of Rob, his fiancé). Barry feels for the man — Big Belly Burger is hard to resist. 

Joe has remained relatively silent, letting Eddie take the lead in conversation. Barry’s aware that the way he and Joe left things is still stale dust in the air, and Barry’s late-night phone call a strong question mark. In a way, Barry’s caught up on Joe too, seeing how Eddie’s cases are also Joe’s. Joe doesn't need to speak. But there’s a quiet elephant in the room. 

So when Iris finally descends the stairs, that elephant begins tooting its horn like it’s just seen a mouse. Barry looks up from where he’s lighting the dinner candles and catches her eye. All he gets is a glimpse of bright brown before she’s ducked her head away from him.

Barry has lived with Iris long enough to know how her anger is displayed. There’s the huffing over little things, like if Barry accidentally puts something she doesn’t like on their pizza delivery order. 

There’s the _you’re-being-stupid-but-I-know-it’s-accidental_ anger, which is usually reserved for when Barry’s too busy at the station and misses a phone call or shows up later than usual at their standing movie hangouts. Iris usually doles _that_ anger out in a playfully snarky comment.

Real arguments with Iris, though few and far between, Barry is also familiar with. Her voice rises steadily, her words get more cutting, and she’s always the first one to get up in his face. 

But she’s never _not_ expressing herself. Iris has never been one to play mind games, or be passive aggressive. She’s upfront to Barry about how she feels, it’s one of the reasons why he fell in love with her. And then out of love, because she was so clear about the way she felt towards Eddie, and Barry simply had to deal with that. 

So this, this silent, icy _thing_ that Iris has got going on — this is new. And it scares Barry right down to his core that he doesn’t know how to deal with this version of Iris’s anger. Doesn’t know what to say to make things good between them again. 

Eddie, like all non-family members do during family fights, just kisses Iris on the cheek and pretends nothing’s wrong. He pastes on a Colgate-white smile and asks Barry to grab the sides from the kitchen.

Joe, in the sentiment of keeping things civil, follows Eddie’s lead. But Joe tracks Iris with his eyes, and Barry knows Barry should say something.

Barry clears his throat. “Hello, Iris. It’s good to see you,” he says. Not overly cheerfully, because Barry knows Iris won’t appreciate in-genuine attempts at conversation. Just a simple, true statement. 

Silence descends on the dinner table. Iris calmly carves into the turkey and says nothing. Eddie stares wildly at the ceiling like the answer to his next case is written there. Joe raises his eyes at Iris, and she ignores that, too. 

Barry groans internally. She’s not going to go easy on him. 

“So, Barry, how is your new job in Starling City? I hear you’re a bartender now?” Eddie asks. Barry feels bad for the man, Eddie’s like a host at a late-night TV show. _Barry will take Jilted Conversation for 200 points._

Barry realizes that in the whole time they’ve been speaking since Barry arrived (around late afternoon), Barry hasn’t really said anything about Starling City. It’s almost as if bringing up the city would be rude, the way couples don’t talk to each other about their previous lovers. 

But Eddie’s asked, and who is Barry to deny him?

“It’s going well, it’s pretty, uh, pretty interesting,” Barry says, in an attempt to keep things vague. He’s really not sure anyone at this table would appreciate the drunk customer stories. Well, Iris might get a kick out of it, but Barry’s lucky if _she_ doesn’t kick _him_ right now. 

“Where do you work?” Joe asks, and Iris gives him a look. Joe shrugs her glare off, giving her a paternal smile. _Sorry, hon. Can’t take sides with my children,_ it seems to say.

Even though Joe could. Barry knows Joe really, really could. And Barry would deserve it. He’d welcome it actually, wholeheartedly. Barry’s getting tired of pretending there’s nothing wrong. Just because it’s a holiday doesn’t mean they can’t be honest with each other, right? 

_Tell me you’re upset with me. Please. Just talk to me._ Barry watches as Iris mounts her plate with mashed potatoes, simply reaching over Barry to grab at the next dish. She’s putting her manners on the line now, and Barry’s actually impressed at her dedication — after all, Eddie's right there. 

“I work at _Verdant,_ ” Barry supplies, hoping the name won’t mean anything to people in Central City. Iris jerks her head up, surprised despite herself. _Of course she’s heard of it, she once had a poster of Oliver Queen in her room._

In one wild, hysterical moment, Barry wonders what Eddie would think of that. 

“How are the hours? Do you usually work nights?” Eddie asks, leaning forward. He sounds genuinely intrigued. 

“Yeah, it’s not so bad once you get used to it, though. And Scully has Mulder for company.” At Joe and Eddie’s confused looks, Barry explains, “They’re cats. That I may have, uh, adopted.”

Iris lets out a snort. It’s her first reaction to anything Barry’s said. Barry has to keep from punching a fist into the air. 

Distantly, in the living room, Barry can hear a commercial for Star Labs come on. Something about a new project in the works takes Barry by surprise. It’s the first time he isn’t already aware of what Star Labs is doing. Barry’s not sure if he should mourn losing that part of him. 

Instead, Barry searches his mind for more Scully and Mulder stories. He needs to find something that will reel Iris in. So he starts recounting tales. 

First, it’s just about Scully. He tells Joe, Eddie, and Iris about how he found her lurking around his doorway. She liked to curl up under the short roof that stuck out over Barry’s doorway. It was shadowy spot, away from the rain that seemed to always find Starling City. 

Scully was friendly, Mulder was not. Mulder was always a little on edge, and even the slightest foreign noise would send him packing. Barry almost lets slip the time he first lit a cigarette around Mulder, and how the cat raced under the sofa when the lighter _snicked._ In words, Barry exchanges the lighter for a match, pretends he has candles in his apartment as well as cats. 

But after the cat stories, there’s silence again, and Barry knows Iris doesn’t like it when Joe or Eddie talk too much shop around the table. So instead of asking Joe about their recent burglary, Barry goes on to talk about cooking. 

According to Diggle, Barry’s not a great cook, but that means he has more outrageous stories to tell. He once burnt a melon ball. To this day he’s not sure how this happened. 

A small light in Iris’s eyes, first sparked when Barry told the Mulder vs. Match story, grows brighter as he speaks. Barry’s starting to feel like they’re just having dinner together on a Friday night, their usual standing reservation. 

Encouraged, Barry tells them about training the newcomers at _Verdant._ He throws Oliver’s name in his stories once or twice — risky, he knows — to get Iris’s interest piqued. He’s even desperate enough to mention his cross-dressing episode during Halloween. That story gets a ringing laugh from everyone around the table, Iris included. Barry feels on top of the world. 

Then his phone rings. Barry can feel it shaking in his pocket, but he can’t pick it up now. Not when everything’s going so well.

But. What if it’s Oliver? What if he’s hurt? It’s not like Barry and Oliver made a written agreement that the Vigilante should be paused while his medic is out of town. Even if Oliver had any sense of self-preservation, Barry wouldn’t be surprised if some random villain cropped up in the short span of time Barry has been gone...and Oliver would be compelled to meet him or her head-on, regardless of Barry’s whereabouts. 

So after the first two calls, when Barry feels the shorter vibration of a text message in his pocket, he pauses in the middle of his watermelon-smoothie story to give his phone a cursory glance.

It’s Felicity. 

Barry’s slightly relieved until he reads her message: _Emergency. Call back at once._

Barry’s heart plummets. “Oh no,” he murmurs aloud. 

“Something wrong, Barry?” Joe questions in concern. Barry snaps his gaze up from the phone to see Iris giving it a suspicious look. 

“I — I’m so sorry. I have to take this. I’ll be right back,” Barry stutters, rising from his seat. “Sorry,” he says again, looking directly at Iris this time. She stares back at him, unimpressed. 

Her cold gaze is still flashing in Barry’s mind as he rings Felicity. 

“Barry, thank god,” Felicity sounds breathless as she answers after only one ring. Barry escapes to the living room — then, figuring it’s still too risky, goes outside. 

“Felicity, what’s wrong? Is it Oliver?” Barry rambles, stepping into the cool night air. Sweat pricks at the back of his neck. He feels queasy. 

“Yes, Barry he’s — ”

“Is he hurt?” Barry cuts her off urgently. 

“No.” 

Barry sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, okay…” _Thank god._ An image of Oliver bleeding out on Barry’s doorstep while Barry is stuck riding the fastest train back disappears as quickly as it comes, leaving only anxiety in its wake. “Then what’s wrong?”

“We need your help with something…” Felicity’s voice sounds distant, like she’s trying to talk with someone else and Barry at the same time. “…a polygraph. We figured, since you worked at the station…do you know how Oliver can pass one?”

“What? Why?” The only reason why Oliver would need to pass a polygraph would be if…

“Oliver’s been arrested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a cliffy but I'm not cruel. Second update coming up soon this week!


	11. About Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updates twice in one week* *pats self on back* *eats a cookie* anyone want one

     Barry heads back into the house on shaky legs. Dread creeps up on him like growing vines. 

     Two minutes ago, Barry had promised Felicity he’d take the next train into Starling City. The situation with Oliver has escalated to a point where a phone conversation won’t be enough. Barry will have to advise the team in person.

     His brain is swirling with thoughts on how to deceive a polygraph, so his lie to deceive his family is pretty crap.

     “I have to go,” Barry announces to the table. Everyone looks up in surprise.

     “I’m so sorry, I — the cat-sitter I hired had to leave suddenly. Scully and Mulder can’t be alone.” Barry notches his voice down low, hoping Joe and Iris won’t be able to detect his lying voice.

     Eddie nods sympathetically, probably only half-aware about why Barry’s left the city in the first place. But Joe cocks his head to the side, sniffing the bull-shit. And Iris just says it like it is.

     “I thought you leave them home all evening and night while you’re working at _Verdant,”_ Iris says, folding her arms. It’s the first words she’s said to Barry all night. Barry’s heart hurts that they’re made of anger.

     “Well…I think she, the cat-sitter, might have left early — even before she called me. She’s not really the most reliable person in the world,” Barry replies, throwing the fictional cat-sitter under the bus.

     “Really, Barry?” Iris presses. “Because cats can pretty much take care of themselves. I hear some kittens don’t even need to be house trained, they just intuitively know where the litter box is.” Iris comes up to face Barry, settling her gaze square on his eyes. It’s just them at the doorway now, Joe and Eddie mere shadows in the backdrop.

     “Didn’t know you knew so much about cats, and here I thought I was the catlady,” Barry jokes weakly.

     Wrong move. Iris’s eyes flash.

     “Didn’t know I should have brought a litter box home,” Iris’s voice is dangerously calm, “considering all the bull-shit you’re throwing our way.”

     Barry gapes at her. She glares unrepentantly back. Her eyes are glittering, and it’s not just anger there. Barry knows the last thing she wants is to cry in front of him, but neither of them moves.

     “Iris, I’m sorry,” Barry says softly, helpless. He has to go.

     “No, you’re _not._ We haven’t even said anything about the stupid man in yellow and already you’re leaving. Is this all we’re going to see of you now, Barry?” Iris is half-shouting now, prodding at his chest with one sharp finger. “Half a day in ten months, with only a cryptic late-night phone call in-between?”

     “Iris, please — ” Barry reaches out his fingers, not quite touching her shoulders.

     “No,” Iris steps back from him. “Don’t you _Iris please_ me. What does Starling City have, that makes you happy in a way Central City doesn’t?” Barry’s heart falls at the hurt expression on Iris’s face. “Is there, like, some Joe and Iris clone there, ones that are perfect and have somehow traveled back in time with you so they can have seen what you claim to have seen?”

     “I saw him!” Barry yells, making Iris’s jaw shut in surprise. “I _saw_ — I didn’t want to talk about that right now, okay?! But if we’re going to bring it up then let’s bring it up, Iris! I know you don’t think the man in yellow is real — but he is! And you know what — Starling City has people who understand why that matters.”

     “Why DOES it matter, Barry?” Iris screams right back. _“We’re_ your family! Not Henry Allen! Can’t you see? I’ve stuck with you through absolutely everything, and you _left_! Ten months, Barry, _ten months_ and then I get some hospital calling at six AM,” Iris heaves a sob, “telling me I should monitor you in case you have a _concussion?_ All while you’re a whole city away.”

     Something inside Barry lowers its fists when he sees Iris break down and cry. It sheds its boxing gloves, places them gently on the floor, and retires for the day.

     Barry knows the man in yellow is real. He knows. And Joe and Iris will never know that with him.

     Barry also knows that Joe and Iris love him. Knows that as certain as he knows what he saw that night.

     And until now, he hasn’t realized that these two truths don’t need to be mutually exclusive. He can live in a world where the man in yellow is real, and where Joe and Iris care about him. Barry gathers Iris up in his arms, and believes that he can.

     “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Iris,” he whispers, while she shakes against him. When she pushes him away, Barry lets her go.

     “But more than that,” Barry continues, “I’m sorry I made what I saw eleven years ago an ultimatum. That was never fair. I didn’t leave because I don’t love you guys —“ Barry’s voice breaks, and he’s pretty sure his own tears are slipping. He looks to Joe, who has got one hand over his mouth. Joe’s eyes are the same way now as they were when he stood next to Barry at the aftermath of a crime scene. Laced with regret and sorrow.

     “I left because I had to figure out what I was doing, with what I knew,” Barry goes on. Somewhere along the way of his and Iris’s argument his bag has fallen onto the ground. Barry picks it back up. He still has to go, but not for the same reason as he did all those months before.

     “I’m still — I’m still figuring everything out. I’m getting there, but sometimes — I don’t know.” Barry scrubs at his eyes. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Iris, Joe,” god, he can’t breathe, “please…trust me when I say someone needs me right now, and I can’t stay. I can’t stay.”

     Barry’s not sure he can look Iris in the eye and still leave. So he addresses his last words to the spot over her shoulder, concentrating on the floor that’s cluttered with peppermint patty wrappers, and then turns heel.

     Before Barry reaches the door, he hears Iris whisper, “Who?”

     He pauses. Stares at the splotch of paint on the door handle from years ago when he and Iris ran around playing tag after arts and crafts.

     “Who, Barry?” Iris repeats, stronger now. “If you’re telling the truth, then who is it?”

     “Oliver Queen.” Barry hangs his head, resigned to his fate in two short words. “I work for him,” he says, even though Iris already knows that much from her knowledge about _Verdant._

     “What’s wrong with him?” Iris presses.

     “He’s been arrested,” Barry says, peering closer at the door handle. It definitely used to be blue paint, because he distinctly recalls having painted the Star Labs logo that day. Time has worn the paint down to a faint, sickly green.

     “Okay,” Iris says behind him, and a moment later he feels her hand wrap around his elbow.

     “Iris, what are you doing?” Barry splutters in shock as Iris takes her coat off the hook next to the door.

     “Well, you’re not going to get to the station quick enough if you walk. I’ll drive.” Iris shrugs her coat on and grabs her keys.

     “Iris, you don’t have to…” Barry can’t believe Iris isn’t shouting at him anymore. He blinks. Did he miss something?

     “Barry, I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but it sounds like Oliver is someone you care about greatly. So let me help.” Iris yanks the door open and disappears outside. Barry has no other option but to follow her.

     He turns around and gives Joe and Eddie a bewildered glance. Eddie shrugs, a huge, fond look on his face. The blond is looking a little too smitten for someone who’s just been left behind by his girlfriend on Thanksgiving day.

     Joe just gives Barry a look that says, _about time,_ and Barry knows Joe means this about Barry and Iris both.

* * *

     Iris has always been a fashionable person. When she stands next to Barry at the train station, despite the dim lighting, she looks like a woman straight out of the fall catalogue. Barry tells her.

     “You look like a woman straight out of the fall catalogue,” Barry says aloud, while reading the boarding times. It’s instinctive for Barry to just say what’s on his mind when Iris is around. Try as he might, he hasn’t been able to kick the habit even after being away from her.

     Iris cracks a smile. “Coming from anyone else I’d say you’re buttering me up, but coming from you I know you mean it.” She sighs, looping her arm around his and settling her head on his shoulder.

     “Tell me about Oliver.”

     Barry knows she’s giving him a chance to open up about his life in Starling City. If he refuses, Iris may never take a chance on him again.

     Barry doesn’t even deserve this much, so he speaks. “He’s kind of a douche,” Barry admits, remembering his first meeting with Oliver — the suit version — at the bar. “Ordered a scotch on the rocks at nine AM in the morning.”

     Iris laughs against his shoulder. “Yeah? How’d you two become friends, then?”

     Barry shrugs. “He got a cut. I patched him up. We kind of — needed each other, I guess.” He’s not told a lie to Iris yet. He hopes he never will.

     “Oh? Sounds more like _he_ needed _you,_ based on that story at least,” Iris says. Barry grins to himself. She’s already sounding suspicious and overprotective.

     “Nah…he’s been a good friend to me,” Barry says honestly. He wonders how to describe it to someone who’s never met Oliver Queen. “There’s just something about him…something you’d never expect.”

     “Bartholomew Allen,” Iris wrenches her arm out of his grasp to place her hands on her hips. “Do you have a crush on this man?”

     “What! Iris! Stop pulling a Thea,” Barry protests. At her raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “Thea is his sister and also jumps to extreme conclusions — ”

     “So you’ve already met his family!” Iris cries out, “Bar, do you _know_ what this _means!”_

     “Oh, Iris…how you mistake bromance for something else I have no idea,” Barry says, leaving her to sit at a nearby bench. The next train comes in ten minutes, and his nerves are all over the place when he imagines Oliver in a cell right now. But having Iris by his side, joking and teasing, makes things much more bearable.

     Iris settles down next to him, carefully smoothing out her knee-length overcoat and avoiding the dirtier spots on the bench. “Come on, Barry, tell me the truth. Do you like him?”

     He hasn’t told a lie yet, so Barry shrugs. It’s not a no.

     “Oh my god!” Iris squeals. Then she remembers that she’s supposed to be a bit angry at him still, and quiets down. Barry smiles sadly at her.

     “I’ve missed you,” he tells her. “I really am sorry for not calling. I didn’t know what to say.”

     “You didn’t have to know what to say. You could just say anything. Like you and I always have with each other,” Iris reminds him. But she loops her arm around his again.

     The faint, rolling sounds of an approaching train starts to come their way.

     “Barry…” Iris starts quietly. “Do you think you’ll ever come back?”

     “I don’t know, Iris,” Barry admits honestly. “Not…right away, I don’t think.” He hugs her arm tighter. “But what I do know, what I _promise_ you this time, is that I will keep in touch.”

     Iris smiles at him, and it’s reminiscent of the ones she used to give him before he left. A sense of peace and happiness collides into Barry’s chest, so strong he can’t speak.

     “I believe you.” Iris leans in, hugs him briefly, then waves at the train. “Good luck with Oliver. I hope he ends up alright.”

 _So do I._ “Please tell Joe…” Barry breaks off, not sure how to take what he’s just had with Iris and place the moment in Joe’s mind, too. He wishes he has more time.

     Iris seems to understand, though. She nods. “We’ll be here waiting, Barry. Your home will always be here for you, when you need it.”

* * *

     It's only five minutes later when Barry calls Iris. This is one promise he will never break again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	12. All Swirled Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support in the last chapter, guys. Been having quite a crap week so it was nice to see the positivity and love in our community <3
> 
> Barry and Oliver take a step closer.

     The SCPD has a rule about not smoking within 50 feet of its perimeter. Barry’s sure that breaking a rule, while outside a police station, would likely be an ill-fated move.     

     So the cigarette is unlit and hidden in his pocket as Barry waits outside the station. He holds the thin, wrapped stub between his fingers, trying to trick his anxiety.

     “Barry!”

     Barry turns to see Felicity rushing toward him, blonde hair bobbing in its usual neat ponytail. Her anxious expression increases when she takes in his appearance. “Are you alright?”

     Barry starts, and remembers he’s been crying. _Well, there goes my smooth Thanksgiving-was-great story,_ Barry accepts dully. He scrapes one shirt-sleeve across his cheeks, pasting on a smile as he does so.

     “Everything’s fine. Really.”

     Felicity looks like she doesn’t believe him — _who would?_ — but Barry asks how Oliver is and she immediately changes tracks.

     “It’s…not looking good,” Felicity tells him somberly. “They have him on a steep bail, and they’re not allowing anyone to use the Queen funds to get him out. That includes his sister.”

     Barry should have seen this one coming, but he’s off his game. Of course Thea would be here. Of course.

     The brunette bursts out of the station, having spotted Barry from the waiting room within.

     “ _Barry?”_ Thea gapes at him, at once pleased and shocked.

     “Thea! Hi, how are — hi,” Barry stammers, rushing forward to meet her in a clumsy hug. Felicity hovers in the background, and belatedly Barry wonders how much Thea knows. Does he need to match his story with Felicity’s? Thea must have seen them talking.

     “What are you doing here?” Thea asks him finally, pulling away slightly to peer up at his face. “I didn’t text anyone about this yet.”

     “Um,” Barry supplies, casting a furtive look over Thea’s head to Felicity. The blonde shrugs frantically, it’s clear she’s been too worried about Oliver to think of a plan. Maybe Felicity can pass for being Oliver’s friend at work, but how can Barry? Thea knows where Barry works.

     Oh yeah. Barry gives himself a mental slap in the head. _Thea knows._

     “Felicity knew she should call me,” Barry says, testing out how his next words will sound in the light of day. His voice actually doesn’t waver. “Because…Oliver and I are dating.”

     Felicity makes a choked sound. Her eyes boggle at Barry, and she has to turn away so Thea won’t catch her smiling.

     Thea herself is giving Barry a broad grin. “I freakin’ _knew it._ I KNEW Halloween night happened!”

_Halloween night?_ Felicity mouths over Thea’s head. Barry just clenches the cigarette in his pocket even tighter.

* * *

“So how did this happen?” Barry asks Felicity and Thea. They’ve settled into the waiting room just outside the station’s reception desk. A bunch of rather questionable characters sit across from them, staring unabashedly at the outsiders.

     “It’s so incredibly stupid,” Thea jumps in immediately. “Chief Lance has always had it out for Oliver, ever since he used to date Laurel, the Chief’s daughter. The man’s talking some nonsense about how Oliver was spotted near where the Vigilante was rumored to have been seen. So Lance pulls up some security tape and catches Oliver going into a room, and the Vigilante coming out.”

     “It’s nonsense!” Thea continues, throwing her hands in the air. “Who’s to say the Vigilante didn’t knock Oliver out after Oliver stumbled on him changing or whatever? Like, some random dude walks in on you, you’re going to be surprised. Even if it’s Oliver we’re talking about, eh, Barry?”

     Barry dodges Thea’s elbow, giving her a teasingly disapproving look. “I’m still not talking about this with you.”

     “Oh, come _on,_ Barry. I’m going out of my mind in worry here, the least you could do is distract me with stories,” Thea wheedles.

     “Yeah, come on, Barry!” Felicity chimes in, ignoring Barry’s betrayed look.

     “I have a better idea. You’re going to get some rest here, and I’m going to go get coffee at the café nearby. Felicity, join me?” Barry suggests, shooting the blonde an urgent look.

     “Okay, okay. Get me an Americano with extra cream,” Thea asserts, patting Barry on the elbow, “and when you come back I want details.”

     “Cream, gotcha — details, nada,” Barry says, before escaping with Felicity right on his heels.

     “Okay, when is he scheduled to take the polygraph?” Barry asks, as soon as Thea is out of earshot.

     “In a couple hours. They’re setting everything up and going through the proper legal channels to do this…according to Dig, they ‘want to do it right this time,’” Felicity huffs.

     “Where is Dig, by the way?” Barry asks. They make it to the steps of a Dunkin’ Donuts (it’s no _Jitters,_ but it will do.)

     “He’s been taken in for questioning, too.”

     “ _What?!”_

     “Relax, it’s okay, he got out after it was clear he knew nothing,” Felicity reassures him. “As Oliver’s bodyguard Lance suspected Dig knew a little something, but Dig threw them off his trail. All Lance really wants is Oliver, and he’s not keen on wasting his time on anybody else. But Dig’s keeping his distance for the time being, just in case.”

     “Sounds smart,” Barry agrees.

     “It’s a good thing your boyfriend is surrounded by such intelligent people,” Felicity nods.

     Barry shoots a light glare in her direction. “ _No,_ Felicity, this is not going to become a topic,” he reminds her, paying for their coffees. He gestures to the cup. “Look, I just saved you three-fifty. So please do me this one solid.”

     Felicity giggles around the rim of her cup. “I’m just really curious about Halloween night. But you’re right,” she sobers up quickly. “We have other things to discuss.”

     “Right. So Oliver gets one phone call, right?” Barry asks Felicity, who nods.

     “He’s already used it to call his lawyer.” At Barry’s blank look, Felicity says, “Laurel Lance.”

     “…Chief Lance’s daughter?!”

     “Yes, yes, it’s going to aggravate an already ridiculous situation,” Felicity assents. “But it’s the only card Oliver’s got in his hand.”

     “Can we ask her to meet us outside for a second?”

     “Probably.”

     “Alright.” Barry grabs a napkin off the counter and gestures for a pen. “Let me write down everything I know about how to trick a polygraph.”

* * *

     It’s a good thing Oliver’s steady under pressure. He knows how to regulate his breathing, how to appear calm and collected, and most of all, how to keep his heartbeat level.

     Barry’s almost completely sure that this isn’t Oliver’s first time under a polygraph. Oliver says nothing, but his eyes twinkle at the assumption.

     Barry catches the look, because Oliver’s now a free man. He had strolled out into the SCPD lobby, hands in the pockets of his (only slightly rumpled) suit. Thea immediately crashes into his arms.

     “Worst Thanksgiving _ever,”_ Thea announces to her brother, once she’s done stifling him.

     “That’s not necessarily true…remember when we were kids and Aunt Frey came into town?”

     “Oh god, _Aunt Frey,”_ Thea remembers with a laugh, “she always made us eat all the green beans.” Then Thea does this weird thing with her face as she turns to Barry. “Hear that, Bar?”

     “Um. Sure?” Barry says, sensing a trap but not knowing what it’s for.

     “Good. It’s your first funny relative story,” Thea supplies, looping Barry’s arm around Oliver’s and connecting them.

     “Oh…kay?” Oliver says, his grip loose around Barry’s, face mixed in a pleased sort of surprise that never went away after he saw Barry waiting for him.

     “Because we’re dating,” Barry tells Oliver, hoping Thea somehow doesn’t notice Felicity dissolving into laughter behind them.

     “Oh,” Oliver says, blinking at Barry. “Oh yes, right, so we are.”

     “You don’t have to pretend anymore, idiots,” Thea grumbles, appearing on the other side of Barry. “Oliver, when you said you were going to skip Thanksgiving dinner for work, you could have just said you were spending it at Barry’s!”

_Oh, Thea._ Barry hangs his head down so as to give Oliver a private moment to grasp this situation. The poor man’s just walked right out of jail and into another trap.

     “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Oliver says suddenly, surprising Barry with his confidence. “Barry? Shall we go?”

     “Rude!” Thea exclaims, but her expression is positively gleeful.

     “You wouldn’t want to come, Thea, it’s going to be very, very intimate,” Oliver tells her, before dipping into Barry’s space and kissing him on the cheek.

     Thea and Felicity squeal in unison. Barry might have accidentally joined them, too.

     They would make a great acapella choir, the three of them.

_What is happening?_

* * *

     “Sorry about that. I just know Thea would have followed us here otherwise, and I hate having to lie to her,” Oliver announces as soon as he and Barry step into Barry’s apartment.

     Barry can hear Thea saying her goodbyes to Felicity outside. Something about having to meet up for coffee can be heard through the mahogany door. Barry’s pretty sure the two girls together have just become a force to be reckoned with.

     Barry and Oliver had to make things look real, and Thea had insisted on walking them home, so here they were.

     “It’s really fine, I’m the one who started it,” Barry reassures Oliver as he hangs up his coat. “I know how it feels to not want to lie…had enough of that with Iris today.” Barry shoots Oliver a sideways glance. “She’s…kind of under the same impression as Thea. Had to give her _something.”_

     But instead of looking mad, or concerned about the impeachment of the Queen name, Oliver simply carries on looking amused. “Is that so?”

     “Mhmm.” Barry shucks his hands in his pockets. There’s an odd silence while the two of them wait for Felicity to enter.

     She never does.

     “What’s taking them so lo — ” Barry swings the door open to an empty scene. “She freakin’ left us.”

     Behind him, Oliver sighs loudly. “She’s probably off with my sister. Oh god, Thea’s probably invited her over for Thanksgiving dinner with Roy. They’re already best friends, aren’t they?”

     Barry crests his head against the door’s frame. “Ugh. I don’t know how they haven’t met sooner in life.”

     “Trust me, I’ve done my best to keep it from happening,” Oliver admits. “But the deed’s been done.”

_Well, at least this means the gig’s up. No more awkward charade, right?_ Barry thinks, but Oliver doesn’t make to leave quite yet.

     “Thanks for today, Barry…I’m sorry about dragging you away from your family,” Oliver says seriously, the bass in his voice dipping as he speaks. He’s got his blazer over one shoulder, and leaning against the kitchen island Oliver’s a strange figment in Barry’s house without the mask and bullet holes.

     “It’s fine,” Barry says automatically, his grip tightening around the cigarette in his pocket.

     “No, it’s really not.” Oliver’s voice is soft. Somehow he’s gotten up from the counter and is now drifting towards Barry. The apartment is suddenly larger than usual. It takes Oliver a long time to reach him.

     When Oliver finally does, Barry can see an entire ocean league’s worth of horizon in the other man’s eyes. There’s the deep blue of the sea, the lighter navy of a ship’s sails, and then the bright expanse of light, open sky, all swirled together for just Barry to witness. His breath catches in his throat.

     Oliver leans in and presses his lips against Barry’s once, briefly, and his fingers on Barry’s neck are a warm, rough slide of skin. “Happy Thanksgiving, Barry,” Oliver murmurs against Barry’s lips.

     Then Oliver sidesteps a curious Scully, and disappears out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tricking a polygraph? Huh? Science is just like time. A big ball of wibbly wobbly, science-y wimey...stuff. *raises Dr. Who eyebrow*


	13. And Diggle Is An Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of just slapped my hand away from the keyboard and wrote itself. *winces* Going to have to ask Barry if he has any spare ice-packs…
> 
> Please read the end notes for conclusionary details! Also, the companion fic to this (will have drabbles of scenes that I didn't get to fit into this fic) will be posted later this week. It's called _After Hours_ , please keep your eye out for it if you're interested! The first chapter will be a glimpse into what happened after this chapter :)

     “So, in conclusion, I left Starling City for Thanksgiving to get my head on straight about how I feel when it comes to Oliver. Because I thought I was being crazy. But then, yesterday, Oliver kissed me. So maybe I’m not so crazy, huh?” 

     Barry chucks a thumb under Mulder’s chin to lift his head up and peer into the cat’s eyes. Mulder looks judgingly up at Barry. 

     “You’re right,” Barry sighs at him. “I definitely _am_ so crazy.” _I’m trying to get romance advice from a cat._

     Mulder picks this moment to leap from Barry’s lap and down to the floor. He pads over to Scully and meows softly at her, as if saying, _your turn._

     Scully obliges with gusto, stretching on her hind legs to reach for Barry’s knees. Barry absentmindedly scratches her behind her ears. “Are you sure you weren’t a dog in a past life?” Barry asks. Scully preens, flattening her ears to give Barry more access.

     “They say talking to animals is the first sign of insanity,” says a familiar, deep voice from the doorway. Barry snaps his head up so hard his neck cricks. The man at the entrance hears the audible _click,_ wincing in sympathy.

     “Relax kid, it’s just me!” Diggle grins, closing the door behind him, his keys still in his hand.

     “I didn’t give you an extra key to my place so you could induce heart attacks,” Barry gripes, mentally telling his heartbeat to _get down, down boy._

     “Hey! I’m the one bringing you Big Belly Burger before your shift,” Dig reminds Barry, passing the paper bag over in Barry’s direction. Barry stretches his fingers out eagerly, not even bothering to rise from the couch. Diggle raises one eyebrow at Barry’s laziness but obligingly steps closer to drop the bag in Barry’s lap.

     “With this I’m pretty much gonna get a heart attack either way,” Barry jokes, giving his juicy burger a big bite.

     Dig smiles at the joke, but he casts a speculative look at Barry. Barry swallows, hoping Dig didn’t hear anything prior to the dog comment he made. Barry’s not sure what Oliver’s kiss even meant, let alone if the other man would want people knowing about it.

     “So, Barry,” Dig says, in a voice that is much too casual, “how was your Thanksgiving?”

     “It was fine,” Barry answers as vaguely as possible, waving his hand around idly. “You know how things are.”

     “Uh, no, I don’t kid, that’s why I asked. Do anything special?” Dig settles into the couch beside Barry, pretending to examine his burger while he presses for more information. At least, that’s what it looks like to Barry.

_Am I being super paranoid, or — ?_

     “You mean, aside from getting a known vigilante out of prison?” Barry examines his burger right back. Two can play at this passive aggressive burger game.

     Diggle lets out a huff. “Barry, did you go back to see Iris or not?”

     “Uh — yes?” _Pickles. There are definitely pickles on this burger. And ketchup. Lots of ketchup._

     “You _did?”_ Diggle asks, and he sounds almost — upset? What’s the big deal? Diggle knows Iris is Barry’s family. And Barry told them all he went back to see his family.

     “Dig…I thought you of all people would be glad I made up with my family?” Everything’s not completely ‘made up’ with Iris and Joe of course, but…still a lot better than when Barry had left ten months ago.

     Barry’s learned a lot about himself in the time he’s been away, just shy of a year. He thinks Joe and Iris have stayed the same, but they always knew themselves pretty well to begin with. All in all their family is finally coming back together, first stretching away then closing back in, the way dough does in heat.

     Iris will need some more details and answers soon, Barry knows, and Joe deserves a proper apology and conversation. But Barry’s satisfied with how things went yesterday, even if they had looked tense for a moment.

     Beside him, Diggle is oddly quiet. Then, “So you and Iris are good, now? Back to…how things were?”

     “Er, yes, I suppose,” Barry tells him, and the man looks downright disappointed.

_Alright. One thing I’ve learned over these months is that misunderstandings cause huge problems, and communication is vital if you care enough about someone to ask for their opinion._

_Just ask Diggle what’s happening._

     Instead, like the awkward man-child he is, Barry says next: “So, did they put pickles in your burger, too?”

* * *

     Barry leaves Diggle to rest and catch up on emails in the apartment while Barry goes on shift. (Barry’s pretty sure _rest_ is code for _play with Barry’s cats._ Sure, Diggle’s feverishly texting someone when Barry leaves, but that’s probably just a ploy.)

     As Barry walks, the air hints at an incoming fog. It will probably rain later — Barry texts Diggle to see if the man knows where Barry’s umbrella is at, but doesn’t get a reply.

     Ah well, Barry had asked Diggle to bring him food, that’s already one too many favors tonight. He still can’t shake the feeling that something is up, though. It was almost as if the older man had been upset at Barry…but why?

 _Did I talk about Joe and Iris too much?_ Maybe Dig was missing his own family. Barry didn’t know all the details concerning that, but he knows Diggle has a kid. _Aw, jeez, way to go, Barry. All that talk about Iris probably brought up nostalgia over his daughter._

     Thea’s not on duty tonight when Barry arrives at _Verdant._ It’s probably for the best, because Oliver’s at his usual spot at the bar (he’s taken to getting a drink or two while Barry works). And Barry’s not sure he can handle fake-kissing Oliver for Thea’s benefit right now.

     But Oliver doesn’t seem to be in the mood for games tonight. He’s staring down at his phone when Barry arrives, forehead pinched while he reads something that must be bad news.

     “Everything alright?” Barry asks, rolling up his shirt sleeves halfway. It’s a pain removing liquor that gets spilled on the cuffs. Even after all his training, Barry’s learned to simply roll the sleeves up, just in case.

     Oliver looks up to watch the motion, eyes tracking Barry’s fingers the way Scully hunts shifting sunbeams. Barry fidgets, feeling suddenly awkward. He’s working, so he’s going to use that as an excuse to pretend he and Oliver are simply bartender and customer tonight.

     “Hey — Oliver?” Barry splays both hands on the countertop and ducks to meet Oliver’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

     “What? Oh — ” Oliver streaks one calloused hand through his hair, making blonde strands stand up, cornfields saluting the sky. “Yeah, Bar — Barry.”

     “You can call me Bar if you like,” Barry says absentmindedly as he pulls several glasses toward him. “Most of my friends do.”

     Barry starts making Oliver’s usual drink, going through the motions with ease. Oliver looks on, but there’s a frustrated edge in the corners of his eyes. Something’s definitely wrong.

     Barry doesn’t press Oliver about it, though. The man’s allowed some privacy. He’s the freakin’ Vigilante, after all. With his double life, it must be hard to prioritize what information goes to who. Barry tries not to feel hurt that he’s not one of the people privy to everything. He simply slides the scotch on the rocks across the counter toward Oliver.

     Oliver eyes it, gulps at it, then sets the glass down a little harder than is required. “Actually, I — I can’t be here tonight — I gotta go,” Oliver bites out, shoving a wad of cash toward Barry although he hasn’t even finished the drink yet.

     “Oliver, wait,” Barry protests, sliding the cash back. “First, this is basically your bar, you don’t need to keep paying me, remember? And second…talk to me? You look like you need — ”

     “How would you know what I _need?”_ Oliver snaps at him, and it’s so _Vigilante_ that for a second Barry freezes. The leftover ice in his grip falls to the floor with the sharp sound of glass shattering. Barry’s automatically reminded of the window Oliver broke all those weeks ago trying to find Barry when he was wounded.

     “Oliver…?” Barry breathes out, but Oliver’s gone. The dark coattails of his suit whip around the entrance to the back door. 

_Shit._

     Barry spins around, scanning the bar quickly. His eyes land on Freddie, one of the newer trainees.

     “Freddie! Hey, would you mind covering for me for just one second?” Barry implores desperately, practically pushing Freddie over to the discarded scotch on the rocks.

     “Wait, uh, but Mr. Allen? I’m kind of supposed to be minding the cash regi — ”

     “Thanks Freddie, you’re the best!” Barry shouts over his shoulder as he races to the back door.

     When Barry exits the club a fine layer of mist hits his face. The evening sky is practically growling; a thunderstorm seems imminent.

     Barry finds Oliver standing near the dumpster Barry had first found him in. The man’s surveying its contents with strangely calculated purpose.

_What is he doing?_

     “Oliver!” Barry says, once he’s behind Oliver. The other man jumps, but Barry’s not going to let him get away this time. He places his hands on his hips and looks Oliver firmly in the eyes.

     “Talk to me,” Barry urges, because Oliver’s got this look in his eye like he’s about to do something reckless. Something that will probably get Oliver in trouble, which will lead to him getting hurt — which will lead to Barry having to buy more bandages. So.

     “Barry, just let it go,” Oliver sighs, his earlier anger replaced by a world-weary slump of shoulders.

     “No Oliver, I will not _just let it go,”_ Barry grits his teeth as he speaks. _Why is this man so damn stubborn?_ “I won’t let you go back into the night and do who knows what while your mind is full of distracting thoughts, and I kind of abandoned Freddie to come out here so please just talk to me — ”

     “Distracting thoughts?” Oliver snorts. “They’re not distracting!” He exclaims, then mutters to himself, “maybe they are.”

     “Hello? Earth to Oliver?” Barry clicks his fingers in the air near Oliver’s face.

     “Hey!” Oliver jerks his head back angrily. “Stop _pestering_ me — you’re the one who caused this anyway.”

     Barry gapes at him. “I’m not _pestering,_ forgive me for _caring_ about your sorry ass — is it my fault I don’t want you to end up in this dumpster again — how is that _causing distractions — ”_

     “Because you care too much!” Oliver shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “It’s kind of ridiculous!”

     “It’s ridiculous that I care about people?” Barry yells back, completely lost at this point. All he knows is that Oliver’s mad at him, and Barry would rather be mad too than hurt. “So — next time you barge into my house with a head wound I should just send you packing? Is that what you want?”

     “Maybe it’s what _you_ want!” Oliver throws back at him. “Admit it, Barry — you miss Central City. If you didn’t have to worry about stitching me up you wouldn’t have come back.”

     “That’s not true,” Barry says, even though Oliver’s not all wrong. Barry _did_ come back so Oliver would have someone to help him — but that’s what a team did, right? Barry’s just as much a member as Diggle and Felicity now…isn’t he? His heart sinks, embedding itself deeply into his lungs until Barry feels like he can’t breathe.

     “Really? So you’re not back with Iris, then? _Missing her?_ ” Oliver says, spitting out the last sentence like it’s poison.

     Barry snorts, folding his arms. “Maybe I miss her, is that a crime? She’s basically my sister! But _back_ with Iris? That’s definitely not true. I was never _with_ Iris to begin with!” He feels like he’s missing part of the puzzle, but he’s too confused and hurt to think straight.

     Oliver’s got his fists clenched, looks about ready to say something else, but he deflates suddenly at Barry’s words. “You weren’t?”

     “No! Oliver why…” _Why are you asking about Iris? Why are you angry at me?_ Barry feels another drop streak down his cheek, but when he reaches up to rub at it he realizes it’s not rain at all.

     Great. He’s _crying_ now? Over something as stupid as a fight that is still making no actual sense?

     “You’re so — ” Barry spits out at Oliver, who looks absolutely stunned, “you’re _so_ — ”

     “What? What am I, Barry?” Oliver asks, but his voice is so much more gentle now. Oliver waits, hanging onto Barry’s every word.

     So Barry makes them count. “So _stupid,_ Oliver Queen.”

     Oliver, incredibly, breaks into a smile. “I am stupid,” he admits, done yelling now. It’s by far the most confusing fight of Barry’s entire life.

     Then the sky opens up fully, and it starts pouring rain, and everything is a cliché.

     Oliver steps closer to Barry, reaching out to grasp Barry lightly on the shoulders. He looks Barry directly in the eyes, his next words coming out as soft as the rain shifting down onto the asphalt around them. “You’re also stupid, Barry,” Oliver says lightly, and Barry snorts through his tears.

     “Excuse me?”

     “Yeah, I mean, you smile with your whole face. Did you know that? Who does that, Barry, who smiles with their entire face?” Oliver reaches up to press one thumb against Barry’s cheek, molding his finger with the dimple found there.

     “Screw you, Oliver,” Barry says, and he means it, because although for some reason Oliver isn’t mad anymore, Barry’s still allowed to be.

     “Barry, I’m sorry,” Oliver says solemnly, folding the rest of his hand to cup the side of Barry’s face. “You’re right, I was being stupid, I was just — afraid. Of you.”

     “Of me?” Barry asks incredulously, highly aware that Oliver’s stroking his face. Rain steeps into Barry’s eyes, mixing Oliver into a blur of color. Oliver’s dark suit becomes a charcoal smudge against the green backdrop of the dumpster behind him. A lone, solemn grey rose in a field.

     “Can’t you tell that I’m fond of you? It’s in the details — you’re supposed to be a forensic scientist, Barry,” Oliver says, still managing to sound gentle despite the utter arrogance that is Oliver Queen. Barry squints his eyes at Oliver, forgetting to be offended because — could it be true?

 _Oliver…is…_ ” Fond of me? But you’re mad at me,” Barry says. Oliver sighs, cresting his head against Barry’s so when he next speaks Barry can _feel_ Oliver’s words, light puffs of air against his cheek.

     “I was mad _because_ I like you, Barry. Diggle texted saying you got back together with Iris over the holidays,” Oliver shrugs, and Barry can feel his whole body rise up and down with the motion, “I assumed he knew what he was talking about. I had no right to be angry about it, but I was.”

     Barry steps back, eyes wide. Oliver lets him go, silent.

     “You mean to say…” Barry can’t help the wide heaving of his chest that interrupts his words. Oliver looks a little alarmed, and Barry realizes that laughing probably isn’t helping Oliver’s nerves but he can’t help it. “You’re saying that Felicity, the IT queen, didn’t find the info about Iris and Eddie’s relationship?” It’s absolute madness. Barry’s going to hold this one over Felicity’s head for weeks.

     “What? Who’s Eddie?” Oliver asks, looking a little crestfallen that Barry’s moving farther and farther away.

     Barry can’t help it, though. He’s got to get this laughter out of his system, it’s absolutely hysterical — Barry’s almost hyperventilating in the rain, sure he’s doing this all wrong, unable to control himself despite knowing that.

     “Eddie is — _oh god_ — he’s Iris’s boyfriend,” Barry wheezes out. “Has been for the past couple of months. But whatever to that, I stopped having a crush on Iris a long, _long_ time ago," he says, finally catching his breath. "And I thought I told you that I told _her_ about  _us,_ how did you forget,” he adds, finally catching his breath. He turns to meet Oliver’s gaze.

     The man looks half sheepish, half offended, and half hopeful which makes no sense because something can't be be three halfs and still add to one. Barry decides he can't blame Oliver for losing rational when he himself has lost all sense of reason. _And it's because of the very person I'm looking at. Oliver._ Barry takes a deep breath and speaks. 

     “Oliver, I think I’ve been half in love with you ever since Halloween, but I never in a million years thought you’d feel the same way.” Barry’s not sure if it’s the thunder emboldening him, urging him on, but what he’s suddenly realized to be true is now confessed aloud for Oliver to hear.

     Oliver favors him with a beaming grin that rivals the sun. “You feel the same way,” he repeats.

     “Yes. And Diggle is an idiot,” Barry adds.

     “And Diggle is an idiot,” Oliver nods.

     Barry steps back to Oliver’s side, tilts his head, leans in…

     Oliver surges forward to meet him and their lips slot together. The taste of rain and scotch is heavy on Oliver’s tongue. Barry kisses Oliver back with enthusiasm, reveling in the harsh, quick gasps coming from the other man as their tongues slide together, and soaking in the _taste_ of Oliver —

      Oliver shifts, swinging Barry around so their positions are reversed and Barry’s back hits the tail-end of the dumpster. Distantly, Barry is aware that this back alley may not be the most romantic of locales, but it’s where he and Oliver first met. 

_That makes up for it in a weird sort of way,_ Barry decides, as Oliver fists one hand into Barry’s hair, the other clenching tightly at Barry’s waist. _Ah, who really cares?_ Any more thoughts spin out of Barry’s head when Oliver, not breaking their kiss, surges forward to slot his legs in between Barry’s thighs.

     Now, Barry hasn’t been with many men. Arguably, he’s only _been with_ one man. Who was experimenting in college. Sure, Barry’s dated a bit, but things never ended up getting that serious, for one reason or another.

     But Barry’s not about to let inexperience ruin this for them. He may as well give things a go, Barry declares to himself, before shifting his hands from behind Oliver’s neck and down to the other man’s button-down. Barry slinks two fingers into the gap between the buttons, savoring the smooth, heated feel of Oliver’s skin there.

     “Barry…” Oliver gasps out, as Barry dips his head to suck on Oliver’s collarbone. Barry hums in acquiescence, instinctively widening his legs as Oliver ruts deeper against him. Barry flicks his tongue out onto Oliver’s skin, tasting the rain and sweat there as Oliver pants harshly into Barry’s ear.

     Barry’s shirt-sleeve catches on the edge of the dumpster, reminding him he’s still in uniform. And on shift.

 _Oh yeah, I have a job about fifteen feet away._ Barry finishes sucking on Oliver’s skin and breaks for air.

     “Okay, as great as this is…and it is pretty great,” Barry tells Oliver, who growls in a way Barry can only take as agreement, “I kind of have to go.”

     “Why?” Oliver whisper-whines, linking his hands behind Barry’s back and hugging Barry closer to him.

     “Freddie,” Barry reminds him. Poor guy’s probably dying in there, making drinks and handling the cash all by himself.

     Oliver stiffens. Barry looks up at him through his lashes, tilting his head questioningly.

     “Who the _fuck_ is Freddie,” Oliver growls, voice dangerously low and Vigilante-like in its lethalness.

     “What?” Barry blinks through the rain. “Freddie’s the _bartender_ I left stranded at the register so I could come out here, remember?” Barry says, laughing a little at Oliver’s overprotectiveness.

     Oliver’s frown disappears and he leans in to kiss Barry again, swift this time. “Oh. Okay then,” he relents, while Barry tries to smother his grin. Oliver reaches up to smooth Barry’s hair down for him. “I’ll meet you after your shift?” he asks.

     “Like always,” Barry smiles at him. Oliver’s right, Barry’s supposed to be good at noticing details. How did Barry not realize he and Oliver spent pretty much all their free time together? And what that must mean, for the both of them?

     “Try not to get in any trouble tonight,” Barry warns Oliver. “Bullet wounds are kind of a mood-killer.”

     Oliver chuckles deep in his throat. “Just hurry up so we can… _resume,”_ Oliver leans in to nibble at Barry’s earlobe, making the slighter man shiver against Oliver’s broad frame.

     “Okay, yes — yes, I will,” Barry stammers, stumbling over to the back entrance, walking backwards so as to keep his eyes on Oliver’s (now smirking) face.

     It might be thundering outside, but Oliver’s eyes are a bright, clear blue sky that stays in Barry’s heart as he steps back to the bar.

     Barry’s not sure when he became a sappy romantic. He blames the rain.

     Still, Barry supposes a few minutes later, as lightning forks down onto the ground and illuminates the bar — good things must come with the rain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Good things do come with the rain, Barry. Like superpowers. Later, later.)
> 
> Alright, so that’s pretty much where I am plot-wise. Not everything’s going to be tidily resolved, for example things with Joe and Iris. The central reason why Barry is the way he is now is because his way of thinking didn’t match up with theirs, and it’s still a true fact that’s going to cause some discord until Joe and Iris eventually find out the truth. But at least now he understands their love a little better, and he’s talked some things out with the both of them. It’s not completely pretty, but neither is life I guess.
> 
> As for the reveal about Oliver and Barry’s relationship, everyone pretty much already were made to believe they were together, so that’s pretty much that as well.
> 
> I never meant for this fic to catch up with the Flash s1, or write about Barry’s life as the Flash. With this ending, I’m insinuating that he will eventually become the Flash, just a bit later than with canon (and with Oliver by his side, of course).
> 
> Next chap is epilogue, but everything I intended to write about has been written! (The next chapter is mostly just smut and fluff, no more progression of plot.) I do write that way first and foremost, but if any of you guys have any questions about the way I ended things please feel free to comment your thoughts. If there is anything outstanding that I left out, I will try my best to add it in the next and final chapter. Or maybe _After Hours_. Thanks for sticking with me through this journey, guys! It’s really been an absolute pleasure :)

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time writing fanfic, so please let me know how I'm doing. I love to write and I love Barry/Oliver so I'll continue this either way, but any comments and positive criticism would be sincerely appreciated! Thanks!


End file.
